The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011]

by David Sakmyster

  Past all these silent wonders, beyond immense statues of Temujin, some on horseback, others standing in silent repose, some as colossal as the pharaohs at Abu Simbel, they finally approached the western gate.

  “Can’t we stop?” Alexander urged, looking back the way they had come, seeing the somber monoliths returning to their shrouds, consumed again by the ancient shadows.

  “No.” Montross paddled harder, gasping for breath now.

  Orlando coughed, craning his neck to look around. “But the treasure. We didn’t even find one ounce of gold that wasn’t nailed down. Come on, we can’t go back empty-handed.”

  Montross grumbled. “I’m no longer in the mood for rusty spikes, poisoned arrows or any other diabolical madness. Not to mention customs agents and military police.”

  “Just talking about a few trinkets,” Orlando muttered. Then he looked at Phoebe and smiled. “Maybe a nice ring?”

  Alexander shook his head sadly, watching another golden-tipped minaret sail by. “I am so coming back here.”

  Caleb opened his mouth, about to discourage any more chatter, when the boat bumped against something under water. “What was that?”

  Montross kept paddling. “Just as I figured. We’ve triggered the main gate.” Their lights stabbed ahead, highlighting the forty-foot doors in front of them, doors that pushed outward around the walkway. The seawater streamed out in a rush between the doors, pulling their boat along. It flooded the rocky beach outside, crashing into the mercury-tainted river, diluting it with thousands of gallons of downward-flowing fresh water.

  The boat bumped against the bottom, and was then lifted and sent on ahead as if they were in a white water raft ride. Montross set down the paddle, reached into his pack and handed out three gas masks, one each to Alexander, Phoebe and Orlando.

  Caleb looked at him with something approaching respect.

  Montross smiled back. “I know I’m not fated to die from mercury poisoning, so I can spare the masks for those who might need them most. And besides,” he said, breathing into his collar, “the water from the necropolis seems to be taking the bite out of the toxicity out here.”

  Caleb nodded, coughing a little as he fit the mask over Alexander’s head. “When we get out of this, we have to talk about what I saw.”

  “I know,” said Montross. “But don’t celebrate yet.” He tossed Caleb the paddle. “Your turn for some exercise.”

  As Caleb took up his position and Montross took a seat at the front, Alexander took something from his back pocket. The folded piece of sketch paper. “What about this?” he asked Montross quietly when his dad’s back was turned. “You gave it to me back in the mausoleum.”

  “Put it away. Show it to the others, but only when the time is right.”

  Alexander stared at the folded paper, then frowned as he slipped it back into his pocket. “How will I know when the time is right?”

  Montross turned away, watching the silver-coated water. “You’ll know,” he said, “because everyone will have lost hope.”

  #

  Nina crawled the next twenty feet, inching along the ground, feeling out with her hands and fingertips for any irregularities on the surface ahead. She was bleeding from a multitude of cuts and had narrowly missed being skewered after only three steps along the cavern wall, when a spike had shot out from small hole in the rocks. After that, she scanned the rocky cavern wall and had identified eight more unnatural crevasses from which things could shoot out at her.

  The walls had been booby-trapped as well, forcing invaders to go straight through the army. Damn Montross, she thought, wriggling along the ground. She aimed her light ahead, through the legs of two warriors, swords held in each hand, knees bent as if they were about to spring forward and attack. She had dropped to her belly about eight yards back, after dodging the worst of a swinging blade, suffering a cut across her back, then spinning away from the thrust from a spear, and again getting caught, her biceps nicked.

  The pressure plates were highly sensitive. Sometimes just the touch of her hand, with little weight, set off the statues and she had been forced to make some acrobatic rolls, dodges and ducks just to make it this far. And, by the indication of her flashlight beam probing out an indeterminate distance ahead, over the helmets of countless warriors, she had a long way to go. Their backs were to her, and she believed that fact alone accounted for her continued survival. The attacks were all planned to deal with invaders advancing from the river, not those escaping the mausoleum.

  There has to be a better way.

  A deep breath, and she smiled as she carefully stood up.

  Why didn’t I think of this before?

  The tricky part would be providing light, but she thought for a moment and came up with an idea. She had one more flashlight in her pack. She cursed herself for neglecting to salvage a flare gun from the dead Chinese soldiers. She fit her flashlight onto the statue in front of her, fixing it in a groove between his armored shoulder-pad and his neck. It lit the way ahead, the bright beam scattering and diffusing around the multitude of soldiers and horses between her position and the river’s edge.

  Then she chose the statue to its left—a crouching warrior gripping two scimitars crossed before his face—and she climbed onto its back by grabbing his head and pulling herself up until she stood on his shoulders. And then she looked out over the helmets, shoulders, saddles and banners lit up in the narrow trail of weakening light. She had to believe this was the right choice, the way Caleb’s group could have crossed this field, if it had occurred to them.

  After a breath, deep and cleansing, she willed herself to relax. She bent her knees and stepped out in a long stride, reaching the next warrior’s shoulder in a straddle. Then she pushed off with her right foot and brought it up beside the left. She wobbled and nearly fell over as the statue leaned forward beneath her weight, but it held. She nodded, smiling, and gauged the next move.

  She’d have to jump onto the back of a horse, which was preferable to leaping over two yards and trying to gain a foothold on the back of an archer in the same direction.

  The horse worked. And from its back it was another simple stretching move to the broad shoulders of a swordsman. She caught her breath, and then carefully proceeded to the next one, and the next. In one area, she breezed through, hopping across a catapult, then dancing along the edge of a chariot, then across the backs of a team of horses. In most cases she didn’t need to jump, only to be nimble. Staying in the light, or at its edges, she made her way to the army’s forefront.

  After pausing only to give her straining muscles a rest, she started up again. Near the end of the light’s reach she paused on the back of a stallion surrounded by six archers, took off her pack and retrieved the other flashlight. She shined it left, then right, then—there. A glint of silver.

  The case.

  Just where Montross had said it would be.

  Nina judged the distance, eyed the best approach accessible from the side. Once there she could easily scoop up the case with the grappling hook, then leapfrog the remaining statues back to the shore. The problem was the darkness. With careful aim, she threw the flashlight in an underhand toss so it rolled between six terra cotta warriors and came to a rest, facing backwards, against something lying on the ground.

  Ah, there you are, Agent Wagner.

  Nina flexed her legs and leapt to the nearest warrior, hugging him about the neck before climbing to his shoulders.

  Five minutes later, she dove, ducked, rolled and then stood up in a crouch, ready to drop flat at the slightest sound. But there was nothing. She looked over her shoulder as she scooped up the light she had thrown this way. The army. Thousands of heads and arms and legs and torsos, all standing motionless in the shadows, glaring at her impassively, perhaps inwardly seething at her escape.

  She bent down, grabbed the handle of the silver case she had tossed here, picked it up and walked calmly to the nearest boat.

  #

  The way back w
asn’t as hard as Alexander had figured. But what made it more difficult was that Phoebe and Orlando were dragging behind, and they all had to go at the slowest member’s pace. Orlando had lost a lot of blood, and they didn’t have much in the way of nourishment or drugs to help him. But they carefully retraced their steps, back through the room with the collapsed ceiling and up the rope, Orlando’s condition making it considerably more difficult. They continued down the corridor and headed left, back across the tricky mosaic floor, which they managed to cross without slipping or touching any trapped stones.

  When they reached the upward-sloping ramp, Caleb, his arm around Alexander’s shoulders said, “Almost out.”

  “What next?” Phoebe asked, from behind them. “Do we wait for Nina?”

  “She’ll be here,” Montross said.

  “Then what?” Orlando asked, his voice weak. “I think I can find us some translation software and we can scan in the text.”

  “No.” Montross had quickened his pace, walking ahead of them. His voice was still strong and forceful, echoing in the hallway.

  Alexander pulled ahead of his father, trying to catch up with Montross, always eager to be first. “I wonder what time it is. Will it be light outside?”

  But then Montross turned, and there was movement at his back, like darker patches of shadow pulling away from what Alexander now realized to be the night sky. As he froze, more shapes detached, separated, circled around Montross, and then spread out into the descending passage—

  —surrounding them.

  Caleb’s light caught one figure, then another, revealing their black body armor and their face masks. They came equipped with helmets, Kevlar suits, gloves, HK submachine guns, and flashlights attached to their headgear. Beams that suddenly turned on, ten times more intense than their own flashlights. All those beams, stabbing at once, blinding them.

  “I’m sorry,” Montross said. “I thought we might have more time, but I knew this was coming.”

  “What?” Caleb held up his hand, shielding his eyes. Alexander couldn’t see a thing, having covered his head with his arms. The light was so painful after being in the gloom for hours, and his eyes began to water and his head throb. But then rough hands grabbed his arms and held him fast, just as he heard Phoebe scream.

  “Don’t resist.” Montross called out. “Do as they say.”

  “That’s right,” came another voice, authoritative and brusque. Footsteps marching down the ramp.

  Alexander blinked away the tears, looked up, tried to focus. He saw a large man with his helmet off, short blond hair and a face like an anvil. He spoke into a heavy satellite phone.

  “Sir. Yes, we have them.” A pause. Then he aimed a gun—some kind of nasty automatic thing—at Alexander’s face. “One of you kindly hand over the tablet and the keys.”

  “We don’t have them,” Caleb protested.

  The hammer pulled back.

  “He’s right.” Montross again, his voice still surprisingly calm. “We left our treasure back inside the tomb.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Phoebe cleared her throat. She rose to the occasion quickly, playing along. “Yeah, just go on down there and get it. Take your first left, and then—”

  “Shut up.” He turned away. “Edgars, what do you have?”

  Alexander saw another man running up, with a box with a handle and a TV screen, and stared at it as he waved it around ahead of him.

  “Heat signatures of all present here,” Edgars said. “And one more. Coming towards our location. About ninety yards away.”

  The commander nodded. He made a motion with his free hand, and eight commandos slipped away down the ramp. He smiled at Alexander, but kept the gun pointed at his face.

  “So, your boss,” Montross said, crossing his arms, “it’s Mr. Robert Gregory, is it? Made it out after all. And here we were, all mourning his incineration.”

  “Robert?” Phoebe gasped. “He’s alive?”

  Montross nodded. “Alive and apparently far more involved than I gave him credit for. Seems I didn’t investigate my earlier partner carefully enough.”

  His shock wearing off, Caleb sighed. “Robert wanted that tablet all his life. He’d stop at nothing to get it. But he fooled me too. I thought he had no more resources than those of a Keeper.”

  “Enough,” the commander said. “Let’s all—”

  And then gunfire erupted behind them. Three screams in quick succession. Then more. One, two, three.

  A soft chuckle escaped Montross’s lips. “She’s led them across the mosaic floor.”

  “What?” The commander bristled, then barked into his comm-unit, “Hayes! What’s going on down there? Hayes!”

  Nothing.

  One more scream, agonized and desperate, as if someone not quite dead writhed on a skewer.

  A woman’s voice over the speaker: “Hayes and your men are incapacitated. Who is this? And where is Xavier Montross?”

  “Who is this?” the commander snapped back. But then he saw Montross smile. “Ah, Nina Osseni. Your reputation is well-deserved, it seems. Those were some of my best men.”

  “I had some help. Now, why don’t you let Montross go, get back in your choppers or tanks or whatever you brought, and get the hell out of here before I pick you off one by one.”

  “Give me the artifacts,” said the commander, “and I’ll let your friends live. Best I can offer.”

  “No deal.”

  The commander pressed the barrel of his gun against Alexander’s head and made him cry out. Caleb tried to lunge but couldn’t break free of the strong, restraining arms. Montross calmly held out a hand. “Let me talk to her. I’ll get you what you want.”

  The commander looked him over. Then he shrugged and gave him the walkie-talkie. “Fine. But if you order her back inside the tomb, I’ll kill you all, then we’ll go in with every resource I have.”

  “Agent Wagner lost almost twenty men down there,” Phoebe pointed out.

  “Agent Wagner. Where is she?”

  Montross lowered his voice, but couldn’t hide the satisfaction in it. “Alas, she didn’t make it.”

  The commander thought for a moment, then shrugged. “You have five seconds.”

  Montross took the transmitter. He spoke softly into it. “Nina. Now’s not the time to be a martyr. Come on out peacefully.”

  “What?” Caleb pulled at his bonds again. “You can’t—”

  “Just do it,” Montross repeated. “And turn over the artifacts.”

  Nina’s voice. “But . . .”

  “Do it.”

  He handed the transmitter back to the commander, then turned his back on the others and started up the ramp. The commander pointed to Caleb. “Take that one too. In my chopper along with Montross. The others can go in the transport helicopter. Chain them to the chairs. And I don’t want a peep out of them.”

  “No!” Alexander cried. “I can’t leave my dad.”

  “Shut up, kid. Your Uncle Robert has plans for him. For both of them.”

  “You know about that?” Alexander whispered. “The prophecy?”

  The commander winked at him. “Mr. Gregory knows everything.”

  “I doubt that,” Phoebe said as she walked by, head down. They dragged Orlando next. He seemed to be on the verge of passing out. “Can we get him some medical help?”

  “In the chopper,” the commander said, waving them on as he stood in the center of a line of commandos waiting near the entrance.

  In under a minute, Nina appeared, walking stoically up the center of the ramp.

  She stopped in front of the commander. Her eyes were grim, full of resolve. She handed over the case.

  He took it from her, then drove his fist into her gut, driving her to her knees. “When we’re done,” he whispered in her ear, “I’ll flay the skin off your bones for what you did to my men.”

  He left her unable to speak, and as he turned and sprinted to the first chopper to join Montross and Caleb, his men restrai
ned Nina and brought her aboard the other helicopter.

  #

  Inside, they had only handcuffed Alexander’s left wrist to the seat while the others were cuffed, both wrists and ankles, and belted in. As they rose, and as Alexander glanced at each of the faces beside him, seeing their complete desperation, the overwhelming sense of failure, he thought of something.

  Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the sheet of paper Montross had given him. He opened it up, flattened it out.

  The pilot and the guards in the front seat never turned around.

  “What’s that?” Nina whispered. She looked pale, about to collapse from pain and exhaustion.

  “Something Xavier gave me earlier,” Alexander said. “Told me I’d know the time to show it to you.” He studied the drawing, frowned, then held it up so Phoebe and Nina could see.

  “It’s us,” Phoebe said after a glimpse.

  “The same scene, at the tomb’s entrance. It’s what just happened down there,” Alexander said. “He saw it. But I don’t understand.”

  “What does it mean?” Orlando asked weakly. His eyes were lolling back in his head, still trying to focus. They had a saline bag hooked to his arm, re-supplying electrolytes and pumping in antibiotics.

  Nina’s lips broke into a smile. Her whole face suddenly brightened. “It means that he knew we’d be captured. And he still brought us out of the tomb. We could have waited it out down there, or lured them in to pick them off, but he led us out.”

  “So?” Phoebe asked.