The Mongol Objective [Oct 2011]

by David Sakmyster

  “So, Montross doesn’t do anything without thinking it through and seeing the consequences. He saw this, and must have seen something else. Probably that we’d have a better chance of ending this, of winning, if we let ourselves be captured.”

  “But,” said Alexander, “that doesn’t make any sense.”

  Nina leaned back in her chair. She closed her eyes and kept smiling. “I think it does. I think Montross knows where they’re taking us. And knows, or at least suspects, what’s going to happen. And that we have a good chance of surviving.”

  Alexander frowned, rubbing at his handcuff. “Where are we going?”

  “A place we probably couldn’t get into by ourselves. Someplace where we’d need the connections and resources of your other uncle to provide access.” She opened her eyes and met their stares.

  “We’re going to Egypt. We’re going under the damn Sphinx.”

  19.

  Cairo, 11 P.M.

  Robert Gregory faced the smooth onyx door. With the electric torchlight at his back, his huge shadow stretched over the golden floor and was abruptly devoured by the implacable onyx barrier, the unyielding door that had denied Pharaoh Khufu forty-five hundred years earlier.

  Taking a deep breath, Robert spread out his arms to embrace his destiny. In minutes, his brothers would be coming down the stairs behind him, coming to join him on this day of victory, joining him in the fulfillment of the great prophecy.

  In 2560 BCE, Khufu had discovered this entrance and attempted to proceed beyond, naively believing himself worthy when he was not. And throughout history, many others have sought that right, believing themselves to be something greater than themselves.

  The fools. Today they still believed the Great Pyramid was Khufu’s, when in fact he simply had the arrogance to claim the ancient monument and storehouse for his own tomb. He had expanded the area, building rough imitations for his sons and stamping his name on the whole complex here. But the more reliable sources such as Herodotus maintained that the Great Pyramid was built by “a shepherd named Philitis.” And in Robert’s studies of all the resources at the new library, as well as those recovered from the old, it was clear that what was meant here was a derogatory term for a prince from the land of shepherds—or wanderers. The land of the biblical Chosen Ones. The land of Palestine. And the man . . .

  This Philitis, this enigmatic character, could be traced to another whose identity is one of the chief mysteries of the Bible.

  The time frame pointed to only one of sufficient fame and wisdom to construct such a complex pyramid, something so grand it was never to be duplicated again. One who was mentioned only twice in the Hebrew Bible, yet held a position of mystical, almost divine reverence. “Without father, without mother, without descent, having neither beginning of days, nor end of life; but made like unto the Son of God.” One who many claimed to have built the Ark of the Covenant himself. The Dead Sea Scrolls and Nag Hammadi texts describe him to be ageless, godlike. Many believed him to be the Christ himself, ageless, and later reborn as the Christian world’s savior.

  Melchizedek. The King of Righteousness. The Prince of Peace.

  Or, as Robert believed, another incarnation of the ancient enemy.

  Thoth.

  Suddenly he heard noises from above. The motors dying, helicopter blades subsiding.

  Almost time. No more waiting. No more wrangling with prophecies or scouring the globe for lost keys.

  Thoth’s hiding place was about to be plundered.

  Robert smiled as his great shadow mustered and solidified, his hands clenching into fists that could seemingly plunge through the door itself.

  Soon, the ancient secrets would be his.

  #

  Shoved at gunpoint out of the helicopter, Caleb had little time to marvel at the one element of the familiar landscape utterly and magnificently out of place, revealed in the spotlights between huge mounds of excavated sand on either side of the ancient paws of the Sphinx:

  A descending marble staircase.

  But all around the pyramid complex, a small army of jeeps, soldiers and even tanks patrolled the boundaries of the Giza perimeter. Three more helicopters circled overhead.

  “I heard them talking,” Montross said, stumbling at Caleb’s side, pushed ahead by two commandos. “Apparently Robert Gregory called in his contacts and falsified a terrorist threat.”

  Caleb nodded. “Smart. Close down the whole area. Create a plausible scenario to keep the tourists and the media away.”

  “Keep moving,” the lead commander hissed, striding ahead of them. Caleb had learned his name was Benito Marco, an Italian officer who fancied himself a Roman general, and apparently had fantasies of epic battles to come, with himself as the supreme commander.

  Marco carried the silver case reverently in both hands as he approached the steps. He appeared to bow before the ancient Sphinx. Caleb imagined that the colossal statue might actually shake itself awake and ask him to solve three riddles in order to proceed.

  Caleb glanced over his shoulder to see the other chopper descending, landing beside theirs. Pressed against the glass inside, squirming for a view, was Alexander. And behind him Phoebe and Orlando were craning their necks, trying to see. The door opened and two men in camouflage carrying MP5s stood there, making no move to disembark or lead anyone out.

  “Move it!” Marco snapped, and Caleb and Montross were herded to the stairs. Caleb got one last glimpse of the Great Pyramid, lit up in greens and reds, glowing with god-like energy under the pale stars. A hot breeze blew across the sands, and mini dust storms swirled around the Sphinx and over the excavated burial grounds.

  Caleb followed Marco, descending the ancient, smooth steps down to a golden subterranean chamber devoid of markings, where two huge emerald pillars supported the cavernous roof, flanking a door of polished onyx—a door, he saw at once, without markings, signs, indentations, handles or holes of any kind.

  From behind one of the two floodlights set to light up the door, Robert Gregory emerged. He wore a perfectly fitted silk gray suit, with a gray tie and leather shoes that betrayed only a hint of dust. He was bald, and the skin on his hands and his face was pale, translucent. But nothing at all like Caleb expected. No blisters, pus, blackened skin.

  “Just like the Phoenix,” Robert said, spreading his arms, wing-like. “Back from the ashes. With a little help from the ancient books you helped recover for me, Caleb.”

  “Helped?” Caleb shifted, feeling the gun at his back. His wrists tugged at their bonds. “If I recall, you guys didn’t really do much except mop up after I did all the hard work.”

  Robert’s smile never faltered. “And who was responsible for getting you that far? Would it have anything to do with my sister?”

  Caleb paled. “The sister you caused to die.”

  Gregory waved a hand in anger. “Not me. Him. Xavier, you double-crossed me, stole what’s mine, and then killed my sister. Inadvertent or not, I won’t forget it.” His eyes flashed, then softened, shifted to the door. “But now, let’s be civil. We have a job to do, the three of us.” He motioned for Marco to bring the case.

  “Do you even have a clue what you’re doing?” Montross asked, his wrists still bound in front of him.

  “Don’t make another mistake,” Caleb said. “You don’t have our skills, you haven’t glimpsed ahead.”

  “And you have?” Robert laughed. “Tell me, then. If you think you know what happens next.”

  Caleb looked at Montross, who merely shook his head.

  “Fine. Didn’t think so. Your powers were never that good. Or precise for that matter. But I have read everything about this chamber and what it contains. I’ve studied the Coffin Texts, the Westcar Papyrus, and I’ve found so many more references scattered throughout the recovered scrolls. So we’re at least on equal footing, except I can tell you I have not been without my own visions. Dreams of such wonderful transition.” He reverently opened the case as Marco held it out for him. And as he s
tared inside, his lips quivered and his body trembled as he at last gazed upon the Emerald Tablet.

  “If you’re going to drool all over it,” said Montross, “maybe you should buy it dinner first.”

  Finally, Robert broke the spell and picked up the first of the three stone keys. Twirled it in his hand, touching it with each finger, holding it up to capture the light. Then he handled the other two. All set on chains, he placed them one after the other around his neck, then turned away from Marco, toward the door.

  “If you have any last-minute visions or warnings, now is the time to speak. As you’re going to be right behind me, anything that comes out of that door, or anything in this room which is triggered to kill if I don’t do this right, then you go too. And Caleb, my orders for the men outside are to slaughter your family if anything happens to me.”

  “Then just stop,” Caleb hissed. “Let me RV this part. I don’t have any idea if this will work. There’s nothing, no keyholes? What, are you just going to knock?”

  “Don’t be obtuse,” he replied. “One doesn’t knock at the doorway to the universe.” He took three strides, right to the edge, so his face was just inches away from the surface. “One demands, one insists.” His reflection took on a hideous caricature in the stone.

  “One pushes.”

  And with that, he set his palms against the smooth surface and bent his knees.

  Caleb noticed the glow at first. Overpowering even the great floodlights, the Emerald Tablet gave off immense radiance, and the three keys around Robert’s neck began pulsing, shining brighter with each throb of the tablet’s simulated heartbeat.

  Robert arched his back, dug in his feet and pushed harder, groaning like an Olympic weightlifter. Pushing, pushing . . .

  A scraping sound broke the silence, then a hiss.

  Caleb tried to take a step back, but the soldiers had pinned him in. He closed his eyes, willing to see.

  And then he was struck by . . .

  . . . a rush of heat that blows away the bright lights, the emerald glow and the soldiers, and he is standing now before an open space where the door used to be. Except, a man in blue robes and a long, white beard looms in the threshold. Holding a staff and nodding, he gazes beyond the door to approve the placement of the sole object inside the next chamber. The room has one other exit, down a ramp to the left, leading to the start of an immense passageway. But against the back wall sits a huge chest. Nothing special, just an iron box, without a trace of gold, jewels or markings of any kind.

  Just a box with three pyramidal indentations near its lid.

  The old man smiles, then spins around after tapping his cane twice on the floor—an action which seems to trigger a reaction. The great onyx door appears, descending from a groove above and filling the space, slamming down and sealing the room forever.

  The man walks up the stairs and out into the hot sun under the shadow of the Sphinx, and Caleb . . .

  . . . snapped back to the present just in time to see Robert fall to his knees, still pushing. Grunting, screaming and finally cursing. He pounded his fist against the door, twice, coming away bruised and bloodied. He lowered his head, then stood up and spun around. The skin on his face was cracking. His suit and shirt were streaked with sweat, his eyes full of fury.

  He gripped the necklaces in his bloody fist. “Why isn’t it working?”

  Montross let out a soft chuckle. “For the simplest of reasons. You’re not worthy. You’re not the one.”

  “I am, damn you. I am!”

  Shaking his head, Montross said, “It was a long shot at best. You knew that. Caleb and I—we’re related at least. Half-brothers, an estimable relationship to the ancient people, but you’re only a brother-in-law. Did you really think it was enough?”

  “It’s my birthright. Marduk has chosen me!” He stood fully erect, then composed himself, brushing off his suit and smoothing his head. “Marco, get on the phone. Call in the demolitions team. We’re breaking through.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that,” Caleb said.

  Marco turned away from them, set down the case with the tablet, then dialed on his satellite phone and turned away so they couldn’t hear.

  Montross spoke up. “Come on, Robert. I knew you were ambitious, but really? You’re the chosen one? You, a Keeper? That’s all. You’re no messiah, no psychic even.”

  “Shut up, Xavier.” He tensed, weighing his decision, and then barked to his commander. “Marco, once you’re done with that, kill this man. In fact, kill them both. I thought we might have needed all three brothers present, but if it doesn’t help, if only one needs to use the keys, then they’re expendable.”

  “Wait!” Caleb protested. “I saw—”

  But he never finished.

  Marco put the phone away, pulled out his .45, aimed it square at Montross’s unflinching face, and then turned and aimed to his left.

  He fired three times. Twice in the heart, then right between Robert Gregory’s startled eyes.

  #

  Blood coated the black door as Robert Gregory stumbled into it, slumped to his knees and fell forward without a word.

  Caleb continued to stare at the blood and bits of brain oozing out the back of Robert’s head, and didn’t look away until Marco bent down and not-so-gently tugged the three chains off his neck. He placed them back in the case. Then, keeping the gun on Montross and Caleb, put the phone to his ear again.

  “Yes sir,” he said. “It’s done.”

  Marco was quiet for a moment, listening, then nodded. He pushed a button on his shoulder-equipped transceiver and yelled out to his men. “Bring her down. And the boy.”

  Caleb shook his head. “Not Alexander. What are you doing?”

  “Easy,” advised Montross. “Just wait and see.”

  Caleb stared at him. “What do you know about all this? What have you seen?”

  He smiled. “I believe all will soon be revealed.”

  Down the stairs came Alexander, his hands free, but his face wrapped in a mask of fear—which cracked wide open into a relieved smile when he saw his father. “Dad!”

  But Caleb was too surprised to respond, too shocked at who followed Alexander down the stairs. He had assumed Marco meant Phoebe, and had intended to use both his sister and his son for leverage. But then she appeared, still moving with her usual catlike grace, her head held high like a priestess marching at last into her temple.

  “Here,” said Marco, and handed Nina the satellite phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

  20.

  Liberty Island, New York

  Senator Mason Calderon took a moment to catch his breath after the exhausting climb. His aide and secret service agents were about to come to his side for support when his cell phone rang. He waved them off, then opened his phone as he slowly walked to the edge, catching up to the young boys.

  After hearing the news from Commander Marco, he nodded grimly, but without a hint of surprise. “I feared as much, Commander. Then I fully authorize you to go to Plan B.”

  He sighed, holding the phone a few inches from his ear so the echo of the gunshots didn’t make him wince. Poor Robert, he thought with a rueful smile. Oh, the man had his aspirations. His resources after all, were quite useful, and his access to the ancient texts, while providing nothing new to the knowledge the elders already had, at least corroborated it. They had voted to let Gregory play at his vaulted role, but at the same time, others were being groomed.

  The chamber at the top of the crown was empty, cleared by the secret service just for Calderon and his wards. The two boys giggled, climbing up on the ledge to gaze out the windows.

  “Wow!” one of them shrieked as he helped the other up to gape at the view of the harbor far below. “Gosh, we’re high up,” said the other.

  “Boys,” Senator Calderon snapped. “Be quiet a moment, I need to take this call.” He waited, then heard a shuffling, some static, and then her voice.

  “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Hi Ni
na. You don’t know me, but you’re about to do exactly as I tell you.”

  “And why in the world would I do that?”

  “Because,” he said calmly, “I have something here that belongs to you.”

  He smiled at the two boys, the twins, as they looked back at him with their mother’s eyes.

  21.

  Nina listened as Marco held the phone to her ear. Her hands were still restrained behind her back and despite coming in from the sweltering heat, she trembled.

  “I have something here that belongs to you.”

  “What—?” she started, and then froze as a vision suddenly blasted back at her. A vision of a . . .

  . . . gigantic crowned head, with blue-green radiating spikes, and viewing holes in the crown. Two young boys look out with amazement at the view, then glance up, hoping to climb the last part up to the torch.

  And a well-dressed man on the phone, a man with gray hair and piercing blue eyes.

  “Nina? Are you listening.”

  “I . . . I see you.”

  Silence, then, “Do you, now?”

  “Statue of Liberty.”

  “My, my. What big eyes you have, my dear.”

  Nina swallowed hard, her vision locked on the blood-stained onyx door, seeing beyond the splatters into the first layer of smooth darkness, the black portal that trembled in her sight like a vertical pool of water at night in a breeze.

  And suddenly, she saw into it.

  Into its depths that had become the past. She saw herself . . .

  . . . lying on a slab-like table inside a white room. A pod. A decompression chamber. Unconscious, in a coma. Almost dead. George Waxman looking in on her with concern, and fear. . . . Another room. Darker, but more spacious. At the end of a long, shadowy hallway with non-descript walls and doors. A subterranean facility somewhere. Soldiers standing guard at the only entrance.

  Inside. Strapped to a table. Monitors checking her vitals. IVs hooked to her day and night. Machines to keep her alive, extract her wastes, keep her warm, nourish her body, monitor her pulse, blood pressure, heartbeat . . .