The major advantage they did have in conducting their defense was the land itself and time. A mountainous land, the terrain of Korea lent itself to the defense by channeling attacking forces. And time played a role in that South Korea had had almost fifty years since the cease-fire that suspended the all-out war of their forebears to prepare themselves for another assault.
Unlike the war in the 1950s, both sides were more mechanized, making them more powerful, but also limiting their terrain mobility. As columns of North Korean and Chinese forces moved south, they were first struck by American and South Korean jets. Farther south, engineers placed conventional charges in preconstructed choke points along all major axes of advance.
Sides of mountains slid down onto roads, bridges crashed into rivers below, and dams were blown open, releasing torrents of water. To save their country, the South Koreans were sacrificing a good portion of it.
At the Presidential Palace in Seoul and at Eighth Army Headquarters, men and women hurriedly packed up critical equipment and paperwork as a mass evacuation began. General Carmody was with President Pak, making last-minute decisions as they walked down the steps of the palace. They paused on their way to waiting helicopters as a swarm of Chinese-made M-ll missiles thundered into downtown Seoul, exploding two thousand meters above the ground in a breathtaking exhibition of flashes and bangs.
“I don’t understand,” Pak said, looking up at the sky and the apparently harmless detonations.
General Carmody, dressed in battle dress, flak jacket, and the other accoutrements of his profession, understood exactly. He ripped open the case on his left hip and pulled out the contents, extending it to the South Korean president. “Put this on.”
Pak stared at the gas mask, comprehension dawning. His eyes shifted to the streets of his capital city, home to millions. He slowly shook his head, pushing the mask back toward the American general. “No. This”—Pak spread his hands wide, taking in the city— “is my responsibility. You defend the rest of the country. Make them pay for what they are doing now.”
Carmody, knowing he had scant seconds, slipped the mask over his head. He also pulled his hands — his only exposed skin — into his sleeves. The crews of the helicopters were better prepared, already in their protective suits. They slipped on masks and waved for Carmody and the rest of his staff who had masks to hurry. The general paused, then dashed down the stairs and into the helicopter. The door immediately slammed shut behind him.
On the stairs, President Pak could swear he felt the first drops of the deadly rain touch his skin, although when he looked at his hands, he could see no liquid. The sound of the engines powering up on the choppers mixed with the noise of the blades cutting air as the helicopters lifted off and headed o the south. He could see masked faces in the windows turned toward him.
Pak reached up and rubbed underneath his nose as it began to run. He heard screams in the distance. As he tried to draw another breath, his lungs felt as if strong rubber bands had been placed around them. He struggled to draw in air. Blinking, Pak looked for the fleeing helicopters but his sight was blurred. His field of vision was diminishing, until all he could see was a pinprick of light. He continued to struggle to get air, knowing as he did so that he was simply drawing in more of whatever was killing him.
A spasm ripped through his stomach and intestines as strongly as if he had been cut open with a sword. He dropped to his knees, doubled over in agony. He could still faintly hear the helicopters.
Pak retched at the same time he experienced involuntary urination and defecation, his body trying to expel whatever was killing it, even though the attempt was in vain. He rolled to his side, desperate for air, but his diaphragm was locking up, unable to work the lungs anymore. The president died of suffocation, as did over two million of his fellow citizens in the capital city.
Airspace, Africa
“What do you have?” Turcotte asked into the radio that connected him with Major Quinn. He was doing two things at once, or rather he was doing one thing and having another done to him. He was piloting the bouncer over Africa, still heading east, and Morris had an IV stuck in his arm and was pumping oxygen-rich blood into Turcotte’s veins. Mualama was in the same place, also with an IV in his arm. Although he hoped to be able to go directly to the coordinates that Kelly had sent, Turcotte had long ago learned to prepare for the worst possible contingency, and in this case that was having to spend time on the mountain.
The concept of blood packing was several decades old. Some athletes had tried it in the Olympics, particularly those competing in distance events, before it was outlawed. Since their bodies wouldn’t have time to adjust to less oxygen coming in from their lungs, what normal climbers of Everest spent months at altitude doing, they were going to increase the amount of blood in their systems, trying to keep the amount of oxygen relatively level for a short period of time.
“The North Koreans and Chinese have hit Seoul with a nerve agent,” Quinn’s voice came out of the speaker. “There’re reports of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, dead.”
Turcotte could see the brown sand of the Sinai Peninsula below. He wasn’t far from Mount Sinai, where the Mission had hidden for so many years. “Seoul’s just the beginning. Artad and Aspasia’s Shadow don’t care if they have to stand on the corpses of billions of humans to win their war. We mean nothing to them.” “Why are you so certain of that?” Mualama asked from across the way.
“What do you mean?” Turcotte asked.
Mualama shrugged. “If humans meant so little to them, why didn’t they destroy us long ago?”
“They tried,” Turcotte said.
Mualama shook his head. “No. They controlled the balance of power with things like the Black Death and various wars. At any time in history they had the power to completely wipe us off the face of the planet, as the Mission recently attempted with its plague. But they never did.”
Turcotte considered that. “So we’re important to them?”
“To Aspasia and Artad humans were. Not to Aspasia’s Shadow.”
“Why are we important to them?” Turcotte felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was something about the way Mualama was talking that disturbed him.
Mualama shrugged. “That is part of the great truth yet to be discovered.” He spread his long arms. “There is much more to this universe than this planet.” And with that he sank back into silence.
Mount Ararat, Turkey
General Kashir had forty men left alive when he reached the rally point at the base of Ahora Gorge. According to the map and the coordinates he had been given, they were still four miles from the target. Four miles that would be gained in over three thousand meters in altitude. The terrain was now so steep, the armored vehicles could no longer negotiate it. He ordered his men to dismount. Helicopters would have been better, Kashir knew, but he didn’t have access to them. He’d used what he’d had, lost over 60 percent of his force getting there, and he’d be damned if he’d stop now. Turkish jets still circled high above, but they were refraining from further strikes. He assumed that Turkish ground forces were on their way to surround the mountain.
He set off up the gorge on foot, his men following.
Kashgar
Efficiency was not a highlight of Chinese military operations, especially this far from the capital on a front facing neither Russia, Taiwan, nor Korea, but rather the splinter states of the former Soviet Union and surrounded by ethnic and religious majorities opposed to Beijing. Add in the two fronts being fought against Taiwan and South Korea, and the country’s resources were stretched to the limit.
Long after the request was put in, the cargo aircraft to carry the waiting commando team had finally arrived at the local military field. More time was wasted as the planes were refueled.
Finally, well after the order had been transmitted from Artad to Beijing to Kashgar, the four planes were ready. The delays, however, mattered little, because the special envoys the commandos were
to await had not yet arrived.
The Chinese soldiers did as most soldiers were very used to doing — they waited, lying on the side of the runway, their equipment and parachutes loaded on board the planes. The flight route was complicated, crossing several countries’ airspace, going over Uzbekistan, then Turkmenistan, the Caspian Sea, and into Turkey for the drop.
The soldiers slowly got to their feet as a military transport plane swooped down and came in for a landing. The back ramp slowly lowered. A half dozen figures walked off, having the complete attention of every man present because their proportions obviously weren’t human. Each was covered from head to toe in black armor, the joints articulated. The helmets had shaded visors, hiding their faces.
The six Kortad, each with a brilliant sword attached to his waist and a spear in hand, walked past the staring soldiers and onto one of the waiting planes. The contrast between the advanced armor and the apparently antique weapons was startling. Snapping out of their amazement, officers yelled orders and troops scrambled aboard the planes.
Within minutes all four aircraft roared down the runway and into the air, heading west toward Turkey and Mount Ararat.
The Gulf of Mexico
Buried alive. Lisa Duncan screamed, the sound echoing around her inside the enclosed space. She tried to move, but her arms and legs were strapped down. There was a pain in her chest, a burning sensation.
Garlin. A pistol. She remembered and with that came the awareness of where she was, inside an imaging machine. She forced her diaphragm to slow down, to stop from hyperventilating. She’d had a tremendous fear of enclosed spaces ever since she’d been trapped in a culvert as a child when — Duncan stopped that train of thought as she realized there was a good possibility it had never happened. But the fear was real, of that she had no doubt. And where had it really come from, she wondered, as she tried to think hard to keep the emotion at bay.
There was light. A faint glow in the direction of her feet, but she couldn’t lift her head because there was a strap across her forehead locking it in place.
“Relax.” Garlin’s voice was low and faint. “It’ll be over in just a minute.” “You—” Duncan began, but Garlin anticipated her anger.
“You would have preferred being told what was going to happen?” “I’ll remember that,” Duncan promised. “Was it worth it?”
“This is simply amazing,” Garlin said. “Yes, we think it was.”
The metal table under her vibrated and she realized she was moving. She slid out of the machine, blinking in the room’s light. Garlin was at her side, unstrapping her. She sat up as soon as she was freed, taking deep breaths. “What did you find out?” Duncan finally asked as her hands automatically went to her chest, rubbing the new skin where the bullet had entered.
“You have telemorase,” Garlin said. “We expected that. But we didn’t understand how your body could so quickly replicate new cells when it was damaged.”
“So you shot me,” Duncan said. “Fatally.”
“We wanted to see how your brain managed to stay functional and how long it took you to come back to life.”
Despite her anger Duncan was also fascinated, especially since she also had no idea what her body was doing when she “died” nor how it repaired itself. Plus there was the possibility that her immortality might have some flaws in it. “And?” she prompted.
“You had no life signs after you were shot.” Garlin had a stack of images in his hands and he was looking through them. “You were in the MRI within forty seconds and we were getting some imagery. You were dead but — but—” he emphasized, “there was still movement in your circulatory system. Your heart wasn’t beating yet the blood still moved.”
“How?”
“You’ve been infected with a virus.”
Duncan remembered something. “Von Seeckt. That’s why he survived so long.” Garlin nodded. “He had trace amounts of Airlia blood in him. According to Majestic’s records there’s a good chance this vampire myth of immortality sprung up from the long-lost fact that Airlia blood has this immortality virus. Maybe the priests on Atlantis knew this. It’s certain that the SS searched for any trace of Airlia blood, even from the hybrid Ones Who Wait during the thirties. And they had ceremonies where blood was transfused.”
“What do you know about the virus?”
“It’s in your bloodstream and can actually keep your blood flowing at a very slow rate when your heart isn’t beating. How it does that we’re not sure yet. It also seems to be able to manufacture oxygen at a sufficient level to keep cells from dying, particularly in your brain. It’s like a cancer, but a good cancer.” He showed her an image of her brain. “You were technically dead when this was taken, yet your brain is still oxygenated enough to keep it from degrading.”
He showed her another picture, this one of her chest. “The virus also stimulates cell growth in areas of damage.” He then showed her four more of the same shot. “Look at this activity and cell growth.”
“How long before my heart started beating?” Duncan asked. “Two minutes.”
She frowned as she considered the implications. “Still — there are ways I could die, aren’t there? Decapitation? I don’t imagine this virus could grow me a new head. And what if I were to be burned?”
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Garlin said. “Those are the ways you are supposed to be able to kill a vampire. Perhaps the stake through the heart must stay to keep the heart from regenerating?” He shrugged. “We don’t know. We agree — there are probably injuries you could not recover from.” He held up his hand as she began to say something. “Don’t worry. We don’t plan on testing those theories. You were shot where you had been before. We knew you could recover from that.” Duncan put her finger in the bullet hole in her shirt. The skin was completely healed. “What now?”
“Now we try to get your memory back,” Garlin said. “Your real memory.”
Airspace, India
The mountains first appeared as a slight white bump on the horizon. Turcotte had spent time in Colorado, climbing in the Rockies, and he’d always been impressed at being able to see Longs Peak and Pikes Peak, over two hundred miles apart, from Denver. But what was rising in the distance made the Rockies look like the sculpting of a child, while these were the work of God. Even Professor Mualama was leaning forward, staring through the front of the bouncer at the sight.
On average twice as high as the range that ran through the western United States, the Himalayas soon filled the view to the front. Turcotte slowed the bouncer as they passed over the foothills in northern India, approaching the border of Nepal. The magnitude of the mountains ahead amplified the warnings Colonel Mickell had given him.
“Everest is there.” Morris was pointing to the right front.
What surprised Turcotte more than the sheer size of the mountain was the multitude of other peaks in the area almost as tall. He couldn’t imagine entering the area on foot. He turned to Morris. “You were one of the two guys Delta sent to climb it?”
Morris nodded. “Last year. Made it to within two hundred meters of the top.” “And?” Turcotte asked.
“We turned back.”
Mualama turned and looked at the medic. “Why?”
“We passed our window of opportunity, so we turned around.”
“What do you mean?” Mualama asked.
“You’ve got to get down from elevation before dark. That’s why climbers leave base camp at two in the morning to try to reach the top before noon, so there’s time to turn around and get back down. We had rough going, bad weather, worse conditions than we expected. Besides the altitude, the wind is the great enemy on Everest. You feel as if it is always in your face, trying to keep you from going up. When the beeper went off on our watches and we weren’t at the top, we turned around.”
“But you were within two hundred meters,” Mualama said.
“That’s how people die. Breaking the rules on the mountain. It’s unforgiving. On the way back we
were passed by two New Zealand climbers. They kept going. And they never came back down. When you die on the mountain, your body stays there, frozen forever. There are quite a few bodies up there.”
Turcotte had the bouncer at a complete halt now. Morris’s words and the sight in front of him were causing him to rethink his plan. He respected what the medic was saying about turning around no matter how close they had gotten. A plan had to be followed. But he also knew they weren’t going to have the option of turning back.
Morris pointed. “That’s Changtse to the left at seventy-five hundred meters high; Lho La between it and Everest at just above six thousand meters, then Everest, then to the right there, Nuptse at over seventy-eight hundred meters.” Turcotte didn’t feel anxious to move forward. The mountain range intimidated him and he had a feeling it wasn’t going to be as easy as flying the bouncer to the grid coordinate and picking up the sword. “Tell me about the mountain’s history and climbing it,” he said. He’d learned in his special operations career that knowledge was power and he had a feeling he was going to need all he could get to accomplish his mission. Also, if Excalibur had been up there so long, he wanted to know if anyone else had gone up after it and failed.
“I don’t know about this stuff you’ve told me about Merlin and all that,” Morris said. “As far as history records, the mountain was first mapped in 1590 by a Westerner. He was a Spanish missionary to the court of the Mughal Emperor Akbar. The Brits were the first to identify Everest and make a calculation as to its height in 1856. But nobody got close to it for a while after that. It wasn’t even so much the difficulty of the terrain, but rather politics. Tibet and Nepal, which bracket the mountain, didn’t welcome visitors. The Brits had to get a special dispensation from the Dalai Lama in 1921 to send a team in via Tibet. Up till then Everest was just a location on a map. No one really had any idea if it could be approached, never mind climbed.”
Excalibur a5-6 Page 17