“That’s what I thought, but I checked the authorization codes. The order was in fact logged properly,” Lydia said.
“And who was given the authorization?”
Lydia tried not to smirk. “A Dr. Neville.” She paused for Diana to consider that bit of information. “I warned you not to trust him.”
“I didn’t trust him,” Diana snarled. “He was under constant surveillance.”
“Not constant enough, Commander,” said Lydia pleasantly.
Diana’s lips spread into an arrogant smile. “Evidently not. I’ll plan to start an investigation into why your security team failed so miserably in that simple duty. Dismissed.”
Lydia spun on one high heel and stalked out. The befuddled Stavros stood in place.
“You, too—out.”
When the hatch slid shut and she was alone again, Diana raised the glass bowl to face level, fiery eyes locked on the mice. They were the eyes of a hunter, unblinking, angry, yet certain. She tipped the bowl. One by one the mice slid over the rim and down her throat.
She’d lost her primary prey today. She’d suffered betrayal. But there’d been some consolation as well. Just before Lydia and Stavros gave their report, she’d received a message from her science staff. The lab chief relayed news of a breakthrough. They’d found the flaw in the oil bacteria. A reformulated specimen would be ready within forty-eight hours. Soon after that, Earth’s largest known undersea oil deposit would be the target of her grand experiment. And that would be just the beginning. Within weeks three-quarters of the humans’ precious oil cache would become toxic waste.
The war would be over, and Diana would be much more than Supreme Commander. She would be conqueror—and queen.
Chapter 15
It hadn’t taken Neville More long to agree to the President’s terms. He’d had little choice. He, Pete, and Lauren repaired to the Brook Cove Lab to stock their Visitor shuttle with supplies. Not that the supersonic trip to the Middle East would take all that long—no more than four hours—but they wanted to be prepared just in case their flight was forcibly terminated short of their eventual destination. Pete had planned a route far to the north, as distant from alien-held territories as possible, so the danger of attack by marauding skyfighter patrols was limited.
The President saw to it that World Liberation Front defense forces were made aware of the grave and urgent mission so they wouldn’t mistake the overflight of this lightly armed shuttle as an enemy foray.
There was another reason for the stop at Brook Cove—to see how Donnenfeld was recovering from her ordeal and to be briefed on her conclusions about Diana’s deadly bacterial weapon. After that, they were off on their journey, given a solemn farewell by the lab staff gathered on the windswept bluff overlooking Oyster Bay Harbor.
Hannah had been allowed out of bed for the occasion, sitting in a wheelchair, sullen as a recalcitrant cat stuffed into a travel crate. As she waved after the retreating aircraft, Doc Stewart stood behind her. He had one hand on the wheelchair and one on Donnenfeld’s shoulder.
“That for moral support?” she inquired acidly.
“No. It’s to keep you from jumping out of that chair, lady,” he shot back.
“I hate being trussed up in this contraption, George. And I don’t need you pushing me around. Slavery’s been abolished, or hadn’t you heard?”
He made a gallant attempt to match her surly glare, but his dark brown face broke into a grin as he wheeled her back to her cabin.
“Oh, no, you don’t, George Stewart. Flashing those pearly whites isn’t going to get you oif the hook,” she railed. "I’m the one who’s supposed to do the mothering around here. I’m the perpetrator, not the victim!”
Sari James skipped alongside the traveling complaint show, with Mitchell approaching from the other side.
“Serves you right, Hannah,” Mitchell mocked.
“Hmph!” Sari snorted in humorous derision. “I always said she could dish it out but she couldn’t take it.”
Hannah yanked her Red Sox cap low over her brow. “I come back from the dead, and all I get is abuse.” She waved her hand like Queen Victoria signaling her coachmen. “Take me back to the Visitors!”
The flight was the longest Pete had piloted a Visitor vessel since he’d swooped Lauren off the roof of the United Nations building and romped to Hawaii for a vacation not long after the resistance had wrested their planet back from the aliens the first time around. He and his two companions had been quiet for most of the trip, and the computerized controls of the shuttle required Peter to do little more than steer.
As a result, he’d found himself with plenty of time to look out the windows and think about the perils of their mission (not a cheering topic) and about the natural beauty of the planet below. They passed over the tundra of Greenland, the expanse of ocean between North America and Europe and the intricate coastal carvings of the fjords of Scandinavia. Now they turned on a southerly course, over the jagged spine of mountains where Europe and Asia were joined.
“Hey, you awake up there?”
It was Lauren’s voice from the aft cabin. Pete turned in the pilot seat. “Wide awake. Just thinking.”
“About what?” Neville asked.
“Lots of things,” Pete shrugged. “Mostly about how incredibly peaceful the earth looks from the air. Especially up north where the Visitors aren’t.”
“How much longer do we have to go?” Lauren asked.
Pete glanced at the digital readouts. He’d learned to read that much Visitorese by mentally plugging decimal numbers in where little alien squiggles appeared. Gauges were gauges, pretty much. “About a half hour—late afternoon Israeli time.”
“Have you ever been to this part of the world?” said Lauren.
Pete shook his head. Then he chuckled.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, I was just thinking how many times I said I didn’t want to go to the Middle East as long as the Arabs and Jews were killing each other, that it was too damned dangerous. Too much risk of getting blown up by terrorists.”
Lauren gave a knowing nod. “Uh-huh. And here the whole world’s at war, and we are the terrorists who’re going to blow things up.”
“I guess it’s true what they say then—eh, mates?” said Neville.
“What’s that?” Pete wanted to know.
“Variety is indeed the spice of life. Well, I’ve never been there either.”
“Whoa,” Pete exclaimed. “What about that drilling rig?”
“That was built while I was at Brook Cove, Forsythe. I did all my work aboard the Mother Ship before I started touring the country. ”
“Spreading good cheer and computer viruses,” Pete growled. “How ’bout you, Laur?”
“I was here once on assignment with Olav Lindstrom. We stopped off in Israel, Jordan, Egypt, Lebanon, and Saudi Arabia. I always wanted to come back as a civilian.” She looked out the window and sighed. “There’s something strangely compelling about the Middle East—the place where our civilization started, where the three Western religions were bom, where all those biblical legends took place.”
Neville nodded ironically. “Yes, also one of the places where bloodshed seems to be an inextricable part of existence.”
“That’s part of what makes it so compelling,” said Lauren. “It’s like some mythic cross between a book of fairy tales, a history text come to life, and a macabre horror story.”
“Where are we landing, Forsythe?”
“At Masada. There’s a resistance base there.”
“How will we know when we’re there? Isn’t it just a spot in the desert?”
Pete and Lauren both turned to look at the Englishman. “You’ve never seen a picture of Masada?” said Lauren in disbelief.
“Nope.”
“Oh, we’ll know it when we see it,” Pete assured him.
The understatement in Pete’s phrase became apparent as soon as the shuttle entered visual range of Masada.
> As if the Judean desert were an ocean, dust its water, and rocks, gullies, and dunes its waves, the great mesa rose up like some colossal ark cresting the rolling sea. The flat-topped mountain was indeed boat shaped, narrowing to a knife edge at its northern prow, angling out along both flanks and tapering again at the stem. The shifting sands of centuries curved steeply up Masada’s sides as if being cut by the bow, while rugged cliffs sculpted by time, by wind and grit and water, stretched out behind the rock like the wake of a ship.
Normally a bleached tan, the desert had been painted fiery russet by the late afternoon sun, and as Pete flew in from the northwest, Masada stood stark and majestic against a cruel blue sky.
The summit towered 1,300 feet over the desert floor. Rhomboid-shaped, it was nearly a half mile from end to end and two football fields across at its widest point. As they drew closer and dipped in altitude, they could see Masada was not quite flat—more like a moonscape, with hillocks casting rounded shadows. Scattered across the surface of the mesa were the squared-off ruins of structures dating back two thousand years, mixed oddly with three camouflage field tents of modem vintage and netting that hid resistance helicopters.
Most striking of all, the northern promontory of Masada held an amazing triple-tiered palace cut right into the cliff in ascending steps.
Lauren broke the awed silence inside the shuttle as they slowed to landing speed, then hovered for a moment above the north edge. “King Herod the Great built that palace thirty years before the birth of Christ.” Her voice trembled with excitement. “Oooh, I can’t believe we’re here! I hope we get a chance to look around.”
Pete cleared his throat. “Well, we’re not leaving until just before dawn, so we’ve got this afternoon and evening to play tourist—if our resistance contacts don’t mind showing us the sights.”
“Then hurry up and land before the sun sets,” Lauren urged, socking him on the arm.
Setting the alien craft down about a hundred yards from the tents, Pete shut off the engines and Lauren popped the side hatch up. She jumped out first—then stopped suddenly. Neville and Pete followed and also stopped short, bumping into each other as they did.
“Paralyzed, Lauren?” said Pete sardonically.
Her only reply was to turn full circle, eyes wide, mouth agape in wonderment as she took in the complete panorama of the summit. The perimeter was surrounded by the remains of a stone wall that had to be almost a mile in circumference. Off to the east, no more than a couple of miles away, Masada overlooked the Dead Sea, its long, thin oval extending about forty-five miles from north to south. Salt marshes around the sea’s rim had evaporated in midday heat, leaving a bed of crystals to sparkle in the steep rays of afternoon light. The only sound was the eerie moan of the wind—until a staccato burst of semi-automatic gunfire split the silence. Stunned for a second, Pete, Lauren, and Neville hadn’t yet moved when the shots were followed by a voice echoing across the plateau.
“Don’t move,” the voice shouted. “What’s the password?”
Pete cupped his hands over his mouth, moving slowly so as not to cause any alarm. “It’s a phrase. . . .”
“Say it—we’re in no hurry.”
“Nothing sinks in the Dead Sea,” Pete called.
“Okay,” came a disembodied reply. “Counterphrase: That’s what my wife said before she drowned.”
Lauren turned slowly, an offended look on her face. “You didn’t tell me that was the counterphrase.”
“You didn’t ask,” said Pete with a shrug.
They heard footsteps and saw three men emerging from behind an ancient wall. All wore khaki fatigues. The leader was a tall, bearded Arab, followed by a skinny fellow with reddish hair and a second Arab with much darker skin.
“Is that true, nothing sinks in the Dead sea?” asked Pete. The bearded Arab laughed, flashing perfect white teeth. “That’s what they say,” he replied, his British accent causing raised eyebrows among the newcomers. “It’s eight times saltier than ocean water.”
“That’s right,” said the thin man, his accent marking him as an Israeli native. “Nothing sinks in it, and nothing lives in it either. I’m Lavi Mayer,” he said, extending his hand. He gestured to his bearded companion, then the third man. “This is Abdul ibn Aziz and Gamel Nefti.”
Pete introduced Lauren and Neville, and they exchanged handshakes all around.
“Welcome to Masada,” Lavi said. “I guess I’m the official host since this is Israel. When we get to Saudi Arabia, Abdul takes over the reins.”
Lauren gestured around them. “I’ve read about Masada, but this is absolutely incredible.”
“Care for the unofficial tour?” asked Lavi.
“If you hadn’t asked, we’d have begged,” Pete laughed. “But shouldn’t we do something about the shuttle, in case the Visitors fly over?”
“I’ll have the camouflage netting put over it,” Gamel said. “I’ve already had the tour.” He moved off toward the tents. “Are you three the only ones up here?” Neville asked. Abdul shook his head, squinting into the sun. “No, we’ve got a dozen people up here most of the time. There are lots of places to hide, and as you can see, we’ve got quite a view from up here. We’ve also got electronic surveillance equipment.” Pete looked about questioningly. “Where can you hide up here? You don’t even have a blade of grass to crouch behind.” Lavi chortled. “We don’t hide on top of Masada, Pete. We hide inside Masada.”
Lauren snapped her fingers in recollection. “That’s right. I read about that, Pete. There’re all kinds of caves that go into the mountain.”
“Come on,” said Lavi. “It’ll be dark soon. One thing we don’t have is street lamps. Coming, Abdul?”
“You folks hungry?” the Arab said. Answered with nods, Abdul smiled. “I thought you would be. You give them the tour, Lavi—I’ll get dinner started. See you all in a bit.”
“My God, look at these frescoes, Peter!” Lauren said. They were on the lower terrace of the magnificent three-level palace clinging to the north face of the cliff. Lavi’s tour had progressed all over the flat plain atop Masada. They’d zipped through three small villas built by Herod the Great, King of the Jews from 37 to 4 B.C., and lingered in the large palace on the western side of the summit. This palace was the largest building standing; within its tumbledown walls of sun-baked bricks, there had once been administrative offices, storerooms, living quarters literally fit for a king, and a throne room.
That room, with four carefully edged indentations in its floor to support Herod’s throne canopy, was the place that spoke most strongly through the mists of twenty centuries. In the center the floor was made of tiny tiles laid in an intricate mosaic of pomegranates, wine, fig leaves, and patterns of swirls and geometric shapes.
Lavi showed them the swimming pool just outside the western palace, a ruined church put up by Byzantine monks who inhabited this lonely outpost four hundred years after Herod, an extensive complex of storerooms, and a large bathhouse near the north tip of the mesa.
Finally, with the sun drifting low, they wound up at the terraced palace. The frescoes over which Lauren exulted had been buried under the debris of more than a millennium, but they’d survived, thanks in part to the arid air. Long after Herod had gone to dust, the paintings he’d gazed upon with pride were still there for modem eyes to admire. At the base of cracked plastered columns built against the rock face of Masada itself, gentle patterrns of reds, browns, and salmon shades were just where royal artisans had brushed them, trying to imitate the look of marble.
“Why would Herod build this particular palace with all the others up on top?” Pete asked.
“Good question,” Lavi said. “It obviously must have been incredibly difficult to build this place. But the north point is the highest spot on Masada—it’s best for defense. And the wind here comes from the south almost continuously. And we’re not talking about gentle breezes either. The north face is protected from the wind, and it’s also shaded from the sun. In
case you hadn’t noticed, it’s damned hot out here.”
Neville rubbed his sleeve over his face. “We noticed, old boy.”
“How do you know so much about Masada?” asked Lauren. “I was a volunteer working with the excavation team in 1965. Yigael Yadin was the archeologist in charge. Masada was mostly a big mystery before he came up here. No one had really dug under the rubble.”
“Why so much interest?” said Neville. “I mean, not that it’s not fascinating, but what’s the significance of this particular place in the middle of a region where every place played a starring role in the Bible or ancient history?”
Lavi cocked his head. “You never heard the story?” Neville hadn’t. A wide grin crossed Lavi’s face and he plunged ahead. “Herod built all this because he wanted an impregnable fortress. He was afraid of the Jewish Zealots, who refused to accept his designation by the Romans as their king. And he was afraid Cleopatra and Egypt had designs on his little desert empire—though, personally, I would’ve thought Cleo had enough sand at home.” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Ah, but things really started cooking at Masada in about 70 A.D. The Romans were in the process of overrunning Palestine and destroying the Temple in Jerusalem, not to mention burning the rest of the holy city. The rebellion against Rome was pretty much dead, except for Masada. It was a last outpost for raids, for about two years. We were driving Flavius Silva, the Roman governor, crazy. Finally, he said enough’s enough, and he brought the Tenth Legion out here to throw the Jews off Masada.”
“How many Jews were there?” asked Pete.
“Nine hundred and sixty-seven. The odds were kind of like us fighting the Visitors. The Romans laid siege to the fortress and Silva thought he could starve the Jews out. But they actually had plenty of food and water.”
Lauren was surprised. “Water? Up here?”
“Yes. Herod’s engineers had built a very clever system of water-collection cisterns and aqueducts. It doesn’t rain here often, but when it does, it floods. Half the summit turns into a shallow lake and flowers bloom like magic,” he said, snapping his finger for emphasis.
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