He shivered—but not from the cold.
Gooseflesh covered his arms.
C’mon already, guys, he thought as he listened to Monk murmuring over the satellite phone, likely making plans to leave here.
He was more than happy about that.
And getting rid of this thing.
Trying to shake the nervous feeling, he paced along the edge of the forest. His toe hit a root poking out of the soil. He stumbled a few steps, feeling stupid—until something worse happened.
The bottom half of the gyroscopic case dropped open between his palms. Jada must have forgotten to latch it after closing it. He never thought to even check.
In slow motion, he watched that perfect sphere of crystal—holding the very fire of the universe—drop away. It fell out of the bottom of the open housing, hit the ground, and rolled into the porcupine grass of the meadow.
He chased after it.
If he lost this . . .
He snatched it one-handed, like nabbing a basketball before it bounced out of bounds. The shock of grasping the sphere bare-handed, without its case as insulation, felled him to his knees. The black energy lit his hand on fire, his fingers spastically clenched around the curved surface. He could no longer tell where the energy field ended and the crystal began. It felt as if his fingers were melting into the sphere.
Still kneeling, he lifted the object high, ready to cast it away in revulsion—but a spark of fire inside drew his eye. He stared through the sphere, seeing a view of the Wolf Fang through its crystal heart.
Only now the tip of the peak lay shattered, frosted with a haze of rock dust. The lower forest burned, smoking heavily, the edges still raging with flames.
He lowered the crystal—and all was fine.
Back up again—and the world burned.
That can’t be good.
Standing up, he swiveled around. No matter where he cast the Eye, it opened a view into a fiery apocalypse. Facing north, he spotted the likely source of this destruction: a distant smoking crater.
“What are you doing?” Jada asked, startling him as she came up behind him.
Too shocked to speak, he shifted the sphere toward her. He pointed through it toward the Wolf Fang.
Frowning at his apparent foolishness, she leaned against his shoulder and peered through the crystal. She stood that way for several breaths, surely as shocked as he was.
“So?” she finally said, turning toward his face.
“Don’t you see it?”
“See what?”
“The mountain, the forest. Everything destroyed.”
She looked at him as if he were crazy. “I don’t see anything like that.”
What?
Duncan turned his attention back to the fiery destruction glowing in the heart of the crystal Eye, an apocalypse apparently only he could see.
Here was confirmation that it wasn’t only the Eastern Seaboard at risk. The entire globe was threatened.
Realizing this, he came to only one firm conclusion.
We’re screwed.
FOURTH
FIRE & ICE
Σ
25
November 20, 1:02 A.M. IRKST
Lake Baikal, Russia
Gray huddled with the others on the frozen ferry pier. It was pitch dark under a clear sky, the night bitterly cold compared to Ulan Bator some three hundred miles due south. They were all bundled in parkas with fur-fringed hoods, looking not much different from the sole native who was also crossing to Olkhon Island at this very late hour.
Normally a boat transported visitors to the island from this tiny lakeside village of Sakhyurta, crossing the mile-wide strait that separated Olkhon from the mainland. But in winter, the only way to reach the island oddly enough was by way of public bus.
Not that there was any man-made bridge.
The bus would cross directly over the ice. Apparently, in winter the deep strait froze solid enough to support vehicles. He could even make out the road along the black ice, frosted with a dusting of dry, windblown snow.
Rachel eyed their transportation with a skeptical eye. No one else looked any more confident. Even Kowalski was in a darker sulk than usual.
“I’ve had my fill of trips over ice,” the big man grumbled. “Ever hear of Grendels.”
Gray ignored him. After the team’s gear was stored, he waved everyone aboard. With the passengers all seated, the driver closed the door, ground the gears, and set off over the ice. It was early enough in the season to make Gray polish his fogged window and watch their passage with a twinge of trepidation. By January, the massive lake would entirely freeze over, allowing hardy individuals to trek from one side of the lake to the other.
It hadn’t reached that level of freeze yet. Farther out on the lake, he saw waves churning across its surface. He had read up enough on this body of water to know it was a geological marvel, the deepest lake on the planet, formed by filling a gap between tectonic plates that were slowly pulling apart, enlarging the lake until eventually it would be a new ocean.
That is, if the planet were still intact by then.
He checked his watch. He had spoken to Painter after landing in the nearby city of Irkutsk in Russia, where he learned of the new tighter timetable. Even now, they were down to roughly twelve hours. He imagined Monk was lifting off right about now from Ulan Bator, on his way to California with Dr. Shaw and Duncan.
The plan was for her to study the gyroscopic Eye out there, while he attempted to retrieve the cross here. Maybe she could figure out some solution on her own, but Gray was their fail-safe—assuming he could find that saintly artifact.
But both he and Dr. Shaw were severely constricted by time.
She had a seven- to eight-hour flight back to the States, eating up precious hours. He was in no better position.
He couldn’t begin his search until sunrise. It was too dark to accomplish anything now, and worse, they had no concrete lead on where to even start. The island was forty-four miles long and thirteen wide. The eastern half was all steep mountains, fringed in fir forests, rising to its highest peak, Mount Zhima. The rest of the terrain was a mix of sand dunes, grassy steppes, and patches of larch woods.
Even in daylight, it would be a nearly impossible search, especially without some road map of where to begin looking.
So Vigor had suggested another route.
Why not ask somebody?
The island was populated by about fifteen hundred natives, an aboriginal people called the Buryats, descendants of the original Mongol settlers.
Vigor had used his connections at the Vatican to arrange a rare meeting with their highest shamans. If anyone knew the island’s secrets, it would be the head of this enigmatic religion, an odd mix of Buddhism and natural worship. The Buryats were notoriously leery of foreigners. Women were forbidden from their most sacred places. It was a singular event even to meet a shaman.
But how to get the man to talk?
Gray had suggested laying all their cards on the table—or in this case, showing the shaman all their relics from Genghis Khan. Gray hoped they might act as a key to unlock any secrets his people had about the island.
In the end, the shaman had agreed to meet them, but only at dawn, requiring that they be cleansed in the day’s first light before he would speak to them. No amount of persuading moved the man from this position.
So many hours lost . . .
But he had to admit, they were all bone-tired, needing sleep and recuperation. Plus, by the time they met with the shaman, Monk and the others would be touching down in California. That left both sides about four hours to work out some solution to the threat looming over their heads.
No pressure there.
Kowalski flinched as the bus hit a ridge of ice and bounced. He had a white-knuckled grip on the seat in front of him, his nose glued to the window. “What’s that out there, near that hole in the ice?”
Gray searched and watched a dark mass slip off the ice and into the wa
ter, disturbed by the passage of the bus. “Calm down. It’s just a seal.”
“That’s what they want you to believe,” Kowalski mumbled. “You can’t trust what’s hiding under the ice.”
Clearly the man had some prior trauma concerning ice and open water. Gray let it go. They were almost to land anyway.
Vigor crossed and slipped into Gray’s seat. He pointed out the window toward the dark bulk of the island. “Look at that cape of rock jutting out. It’s called Khorin-Irgi in the native tongue, meaning Horse Head. See how it resembles a horse drinking water from the lake. There are stories of Mongol warriors from Genghis Khan’s time who came here and paid homage at this spot, believing the shape of the cape was some universal acknowledgment of their leader.”
Gray stared harder at the shadowy bulk. He knew the Mongols held their horses in high esteem. He remembered Vigor describing the tunnel that led to the boat of bones in the Aral Sea. It had been shaped like a horse, too.
“Do you think that’s a good place to start looking?” Gray asked.
“I doubt it,” Vigor said. “The cape is one of the busier spots on the island. Someone would surely have found something hidden there by now. My point was that many locations on this island are tied to the mythos of Genghis Khan. We just have to find out which one holds his tomb.”
“And maybe that shaman can tell us.”
“If he knows something, then it’s only professional courtesy that he shares it with another man of the cloth.” Vigor gave him a tired grin. “Do not lose faith, Commander Pierce. If the cross is here, we’ll find it.”
“Yes, but will we find it in time?”
Vigor patted his knee in a fatherly fashion and returned to his own seat. He slipped his arm around his niece, who continued to keep a sharp, concerned eye on her uncle.
With a large bump, the bus climbed off the ice road and onto solid rock. It trundled up the sandy embankment and onto a narrow road that ran the long axis of the thin island. Gray’s team was traveling half its length to reach the largest village on Olkhon. They were to meet the shaman at a sacred spot near there.
Forty-five minutes of rough terrain later, sweeping through the broken brown steppes along the western shore, the bus rumbled down into the sleepy, picturesque village of Khuzhir, a neat little town of timber-framed homes with mossy roofs and brightly painted picket fences marking off small yards or sheep pens. The village hugged a small bay on the western side of the island and had only a couple of places for lodging.
Gray had chosen the smaller of the two. As it was the off-season for tourists, he had rented out the entire place, which consisted of only a dozen bedrooms anyway.
The bus delivered them to its doorstep. It was a two-story log lodge with a nice view of the bay off in the distance. There was a horse barn in back and a line of all-terrain vehicles parked along one side, clearly meant as rentals for its guests to explore the island.
They offloaded and headed inside. The proprietors—an older Russian couple, who did a lot of bowing and gesturing to make up for their poor English—had been expecting them and had a fire roaring in a stone hearth in the small communal room, a welcoming space of plank floors, overstuffed chairs, and a long dining table on one side.
The heat of the fire felt stifling for the first few breaths after the long chilly ride, but as they checked in and settled their room arrangements, Gray found himself drawn to the flames, warming his hands.
Vigor sank into one of the chairs. “I think I’m fine right here.”
“Bed” was all Kowalski said, tramping up the stairs, rubbing his eyes like a kid who had been up well past his bedtime.
Gray didn’t disagree with Kowalski’s plan, proving it by yawning loudly. “Sorry. I think we all should get as much shut-eye as we can. We’ll need to be up an hour or two before sunrise if we’re to meet the shaman for his cleansing ritual.”
“At least you guys will,” Seichan said sourly.
That was another concession that had to be made to accommodate the shaman’s rules. No girls allowed. It was clearly a boys’ club when it came to the Buryats’ sacred sites.
“Seichan and I will have to make a spa day of it then,” Rachel said, “while you all go traipsing out into the cold.”
Still, she didn’t truly look any happier, staring at the back of her uncle’s head. She didn’t want Vigor out of her sight. She even sank into a chair next to him by the fire.
With a final few words, they all settled in for the night.
As Gray climbed the stairs, the wood creaking underfoot, he could not escape the feeling of foreboding. A window at the landing above shone with the light of the comet. But he felt the danger was much closer, like someone stepping on his grave.
Or someone else’s grave.
Seichan followed him up, never even creaking a stair.
3:03 A.M.
Rachel woke in a panic, hearing a gunshot.
She found herself slouched in a chair by a fire. Another loud pop of wood from the hearth calmed her initial fear. She quickly remembered where she was. She checked her watch, discerning when.
Shocked, she shifted in her seat.
“Uncle Vigor, what are you still doing up? It’s past three in the morning, and you have to be awake in another few hours.”
Across the hearth from her, he had a local travel book open on his lap, his reading glasses perched on his nose, reflecting the flames.
“I slept on the plane ride here, took a nap on the drive over.” He shooed her concerns away with a flutter of fingers. “A couple hours of sleep and I’ll be fine.”
She knew every one of those statements was a lie. She had watched him the entire trip. He had never closed his eyes once. Even now, she noted the sheen of sweat on his brow that had nothing to do with the fire. His pallid expression confirmed it.
His insomnia wasn’t from old age. It wasn’t even from his interest in the research book on his lap. It was pain.
She pushed from her chair and slid next to him, kneeling at his feet, hugging close to his legs.
“Just tell me,” she said, knowing she needed no more words to clarify what she meant.
He sighed heavily, his eyes wincing slightly at the corners. He placed his book aside and stared into the flame. “It’s pancreatic cancer,” he whispered, as if ashamed—not at being sick but keeping this secret.
“How long?”
“I was diagnosed three months ago.”
She stared up at him, showing him that wasn’t the question she was asking. “How long?” she repeated.
“I have another two, maybe three months.”
Hearing the truth was both a relief and a terror. After so long of not knowing, she wanted the truth, needed the truth, to be able to put a name to her fear. But now that it was in the open, she could not shield herself with false hope.
Tears rose to her eyes.
He reached and wiped them away. “No tears. That’s why I didn’t want anyone to know. I’ve had a good run.”
“You could have told me.”
“I needed . . .” He sighed again. “I needed this to be my own for a while.”
He shook his head, plainly disappointed he couldn’t explain it better.
But Rachel understood, squeezing his knee. He had to come to terms with his own mortality, its inevitability, before sharing that truth with others.
He then went and gave her more details. Like most pancreatic cancers, his disease was silent, asymptomatic. By the time he felt ill, initially dismissing it as indigestion, it was too late. The cancer had metastasized throughout his abdomen and into his lungs. He opted for palliative treatment only, drugs to stave off the worst of the pain.
“The small blessing,” he said, finding a silver lining amid the darkness, “is that I can still be vital until near the very end.”
Rachel swallowed the lump in her throat, suddenly so very glad she had not restricted him from this trip, one that was likely to be his last.
“I’ll
be there for you,” she promised.
“And that’s fine, but don’t forget to live yourself.” He waved a hand along his body. “This is only temporary, a small gift that hopefully leads to a greater glory. But do not waste that gift, do not set it on a shelf for some future use; grab it with both hands and live it now, live it every day.”
She rested her cheek on his lap, shoulders shaking, losing her struggle against her grief.
He allowed it now. He placed a hand atop her head and spoke softly.
“I love you, Rachel. You are my daughter. You’ve always been that to me. I cherish that I got to share my life with you.”
She hugged his legs—not wanting to ever let go, but knowing she must soon.
I love you, too.
3:19 A.M.
Seichan had an arm over her eyes as she lay in bed, holding her own tears in check. She had heard everything below. Her room was directly above the communal space. Every whisper rose to her, amplified by the acoustics of the wooden echo chamber that was this inn.
She had not meant to eavesdrop, but their voices had woken her.
She heard the love in those few words of the priest.
You are my daughter.
The truth cut her to the core—that although Vigor certainly was not Rachel’s father, the two had forged a family despite it.
As she had listened, she had pictured her mother’s face, now that of a stranger, the two of them separated by a gulf of time and tragedy. Rather than trying to renew their roles as mother and daughter, could they forge something new, to begin again as two strangers who shared a lost dream of another time? Could they take those faded embers and stoke something anew?
Seichan felt a flicker of hope, of possibility.
She rolled to her feet, knowing she would not be able to sleep.
Vigor’s advice also stayed with her.
. . . do not waste that gift, do not set it on a shelf for some future use; grab it with both hands and live it now . . .
The Eye of God: A Sigma Force Novel Page 31