by Dan McGirt
Galahad nodded. “Let’s do it.”
Keeping to cover, they circled the mound until they reached a two-lane unpaved road that cut through the jungle to wind its way up the western ridge of the valley. It was the only road in or out.
A flat-roofed wooden hut situated beside the gate through which the roadway entered the temple grounds served as a guard station. The structure’s peeling white paint was dull in the tropical sun. Behind the hut was an army LandRanger. The gate was closed.
Separated from the guard station by a small lot strewn with crushed gravel stood a large Quonset hut that served as a field lab for scientists working on site and a comfort station for the rare authorized visitors to Sina’an Muul. A dusty late-model Ajax pickup truck and a black SUV with tinted windows were parked in front.
“Looks like civilian personnel on site,” said Jack.
“We’ll have to shut them down too,” said Galahad.
“Gently.”
“As a lamb,” said Gal. He winked.
The pair emerged from the underbrush and hopped over the drainage ditch into the roadway. They were visible to anyone in the guard hut who cared to look their way. Jack and Galahad strolled casually, rifles slung at their shoulders, presenting as nonchalant a posture as they could, with the wary slouch of two soldiers coming off a long foot patrol.
A puzzled face appeared in the window of the guard hut. Jack waved in greeting. A sentry emerged, holding his Ruker carbine at something close to port arms.
“Halt! Who goes there?” he challenged.
“I was hoping we’d get closer,” muttered Jack, as he and Galahad stopped. Both showed empty hands. “Friends!” Jack responded in a loud and clear voice.
“Advance, one, and be recognized!” ordered the sentry.
Jack shot a sidelong look at Galahad, who gave a slight nod. As Jack stepped ahead, momentarily obscuring him from view, Gal casually slipped his right hand into his pocket.
“We’re Charlie Company,” Jack said, spreading his hands wide as he walked slowly toward the guard, angling away from Galahad to make it harder for the soldier to keep them both under scrutiny. He took note of a second soldier who had not emerged from the guard hut. “Our transport blew a tire ’bout four clicks back, can you believe it?” Jack jerked his left thumb back over his shoulder, drawing the suspicious sentry’s eye.
At the same instant, Galahad’s right arm whipped around in a side arm throw worthy of the Metro Marvels starting pitcher. The small round stone he had palmed flew straight and true, plugging the sentry between the eyes at fastball speed. The soldier partially turned his head in the last instant, deflecting some of the stone’s force. The rock rebounded off his skull and clacked against the sentry hut’s window, pitting a chip out of the security glass.
Jack sprinted, unslinging his Ruker carbine as he ran. He reversed the weapon and swept the stock up in a black blur that caught the stunned sentry under the chin, putting him down and out cold.
The soldier in the hut, realizing he should have had his rifle in hand and now couldn’t reach it in time, clawed for the automatic at his hip. It barely cleared the holster before Jack was through the open door to disarm him, paralyze his shooting arm with a nerve strike, and knock him unconscious with an upward sword fist.
Jack flipped a switch to open the gate then smashed the radio and camera monitors before exiting the guard hut. An electric motor rattled and hummed and drew the gate slowly sideways. Jack knelt and checked for a pulse on the soldier Galahad had clocked with the rock. Satisfied he was alive and would likely recover, though with a nasty headache, He dragged the unconscious man into the guard hut.
Galahad, meanwhile, raced to the door of the Quonset, threw it open and brought up his rifle. “Everybody freeze!” he shouted.
There was no response. In the front of the Quonset were a pair of rattan couches, a much-abused coffee table, and several chairs. The rest of the space was filled with benches, work tables, and metal shelves on which were arranged numerous clay figurines, carved stones, potsherds, skulls, bone fragments, and other archeological finds, each with a yellow paper tag attached. Galahad kicked open the door to a washroom outfitted with a chemical toilet. Empty. He opened several cabinets and did a quick visual check of any other possible hiding places.
Satisfied that the lab was empty, Galahad emerged to find Jack waiting in the parking lot behind the wheel of the LandRanger. He noticed the pickup truck was sitting lower – all four tires had been slashed.
“You were gentle, I hope,” said Jack.
Galahad slid into the front passenger seat. “No one home.” He pointed to the SUV with his chin. “Why not that one too?”
“Look closer. Solid hephaestucine.”
Galahad saw the mark where Jack’s knife had merely scratched one of the SUV’s rear tires. “Chod,” he muttered.
Jack’s expression darkened as he nodded. “SEG is here.”
“Guess you were right about there being some connection to Deepfire.”
“I had no doubt,” said Jack.
“I did.”
Jack put the LandRanger in gear and aimed for the open gate. “Let’s see what has them so interested.”
16: Tunnel to the Past
The ceremonial stone staircase, fashioned of limestone blocks, climbed the south face of the mound, rising more than seventy feet to the temple plaza. Weathered pictographs and spiral-like symbols covered narrow steps pitched so steeply that anyone bigger than a child found it safer to climb sideways or on all fours.
To the left of the ancient stairway was a modern steel scaffold supporting a construction lift and equipment hoist. At the top, the lift cage opened onto a narrow deck connected to the temple plaza by a ramp. Beside the lift, a wooden staircase offered access to the mound at a more moderate grade than the Maya steps. A flatbed truck was parked near the scaffolding.
Jack and Galahad climbed the wooden stairs at a quick pace, keenly aware of how little cover they had if hostiles opened fire. Relieved to reach the top unchallenged, they paused to scan the eerie temple complex for danger, scrutinizing the two pyramids, and the angled walls, darkened doorways, and shadowy recesses of the lesser structures arranged between them. No hint of concealed enemies caught their wary gaze.
Along the mound’s north side was a raised platform some twenty feet high. This provided a foundation for two dozen structures of various sizes – temples and so-called palaces that long ago served as priestly or royal residences, storehouses, or other functions. Fragments of ancient plaster clung to the weathered masonry. Fantastically carved lintels of red-brown zapote wood braced millennium-old doorways. The ornamentation featured detailed figures of warriors and kings. Motifs of serpents, turtles, crocodiles, and jaguars abounded, along with other creatures not readily identifiable.
The main plaza was an open lawn bisected by two lines of stelae marking a causeway connecting the pyramids. Perhaps a third of the markers were broken or missing. Each intact stele was a slender stone slab six feet high, sculpted in low relief with profile depictions of handsomely outfitted, lordly figures engaged in battle, performing bloody sacrifices, or conversing with strange reptilian or fish-headed figures. Perhaps a third of the monuments were broken, damaged, or missing entirely.
South of the causeway was a cluster of nine round pits or wells, each rimmed with masonry. Six were capped or plugged by massive wheels of stone; the remaining three were open to the sky.
“Sacrificial scorpion pits,” said Jack. “Not where you’d want to be back in the day.”
“Or now,” answered Galahad.
Jack again surveilled the plaza, focusing in turn on every corner and shadow that might hide an enemy. No suspicious silhouette betrayed a foe’s presence, but in the stillness Jack fancied he felt an ancient and contemptuous hostility that lingered here, a brooding darkness fed by the blood and fear of the countless human sacrifices who had perished screaming in the pits or seen their own still-beating hearts ripped f
rom their chests upon the altars.
In less pressing circumstances, Jack could have spent days deciphering the secrets of Sina’an Muul. Perhaps another time. Today there was one secret in particular he was here to claim.
“Clear,” said Jack. “But they’re here somewhere. Change of plan – we’ll stick together.”
“Works for me.”
Jack sprinted toward the larger pyramid, giving wide berth to stelae and pits alike. Galahad followed at his heels. The path Jack set brought them not to the great stairway climbing the east face of the pyramid, but to a narrow opening in the south side of the structure.
“You want to go in there?” said Galahad.
The slit-like portal was barely two feet wide. Cool, foul air with an odor of mold and decay seeped from the gap like the dying breath of a plague victim.
Galahad wrinkled his nose. “Does this lead to the basement where they dropped the dead bodies?”
“Something like that,” said Jack. “The Maya tended to demolish old buildings and use the remains as the core for new and larger structures on the same site. This pyramid was built, partially demolished, and rebuilt many times over the centuries before assuming its present form.”
“The original recycling program,” said Galahad.
“Yes. During his preliminary excavations, Professor Helstrom found evidence of a much older, likely pre-Maya, complex buried beneath Sina’an Muul.”
Galahad frowned. “Pre-Maya? What does that mean? Who was building things here before the Maya?”
Jack grinned. “Well, that’s the mystery, isn’t it? Unfortunately, due to certain...complications...the Helstrom expedition was shut down and his field notes were confiscated by the government. The San Marcans declared this valley off limits. Access to the site has been highly restricted ever since.”
“It’s scorpions, isn’t it? Chod! Why do I listen to you, man?”
Jack ignited the bright LED flashlight attached to the rail of his Ruker carbine and ducked into the opening. He was forced to hunch and walk almost sideways in the narrow space to accommodate his powerful frame.
“Sure you don’t want me to wait out here?” said Galahad.
“It’s cozy. Come on in.”
Galahad swore in Monoga and squeezed into the passage. He didn’t have to stoop as much as Jack, but that was small comfort as he wedged his way forward.
“It opens up ninety feet in,” Jack assured. “I studied Helstrom’s sketches of the interior a few years ago.”
“You said his notes were seized.”
“Helstrom recreated as much as he could from memory when he returned to London. He had a good head for architectural drawing, down to the inch.”
“Convenient.”
“Unfortunately, he did not have time to fully document the mural chamber he uncovered. Only the overall dimensions and his superficial impressions of the imagery. But what he did record is remarkable.”
“And relevant, I hope.”
“What does that mean?”
“This smells like another of your take-the-scenic-route tangents, man. You’ve wanted a look at this place, so you rationalized a connection to the mission at hand.”
“Would I do that?”
“Every damn time.”
“SEG is here.”
“Even crazier than you.”
“Thanks.”
“Not by much though.”
“That stings.”
“Only difference is you want to explain the Bermuda Triangles of the world. SEG wants to bottle the Bermuda Triangle and take it home.”
“That’s beautiful, Gal. Pure poetry.”
Galahad puffed his breath derisively. “Let’s get this over with.”
True to Jack’s prediction, the tight entrance passage soon brought them to a long, narrow chamber spanned by high corbelled vaults – the characteristic Maya arch formed by tilting two opposed wall faces and bridging the gap with a row of horizontal capstones. Jack and Galahad emerged from a mouth-like doorway in the short south wall. Opposite them, the north wall was pierced by a similar portal surmounted by the carved image of a grinning skeletal figure grasping a severed head.
“Looks like a ‘Do Not Enter’ to me,” said Galahad.
“Close enough,” said Jack. “That passage leads to a royal burial chamber. But we’re not going that way.”
“Good.”
Galahad scrutinized the long, leaning side walls of the chamber, adorned with relief friezes of gods and kings, demons and beasts. There were no obvious exits, though he wouldn’t put it past Jack to dramatically reveal a hidden doorway. Then he noticed Jack’s mischievous half-smile as he gave a mock bow and swept his arm toward the yawning black square pit that occupied the center of the room.
“Where does that go?”
“It goes down.”
“Kamenay,” hissed Galahad. “Did you even bring a rope?”
“I was hoping someone had left us a ladder,” said Jack. “But we don’t need it. There are handholds.”
“I hate you.”
Jack laughed. “Can you handle it?”
Galahad scoffed. “Can a Monoga climb something? Backward and in the dark, man.”
“Good. Because that’s exactly what we’re doing.”
Jack slung his carbine and lowered himself over the rim of the pit. His feet found purchase on a projecting stone tenon not much bigger than a loaf of bread. Jack gave a wink, then descended fully below floor level.
Gal ignited his own flashlight and shone it down the shaft. “Long way down,” he said.
“Thirty feet,” said Jack. “It’s nothing.”
Galahad kept the beam on Jack as he clambered down the wall, soon reaching the floor of the pit.
Jack unslung his carbine and activated his light. He played it up and down the wall, revealing the path he had followed. “Piece of cake,” he said. “Just skip the stones carved with scorpions. They recede into the wall if you put weight on them.”
“Naturally,” muttered Galahad.
He joined Jack in the narrow lower passage. As above, the walls were cantilevered. The low ceiling meant Jack had to stoop to avoid scraping his head on the ancient capstones as he led the way east.
“Helstrom found a multi-level maze of passages that honeycombs the mound beneath the temple complex,” Jack explained. “He was only able to map part of it before getting shut down.”
“No one ever followed up?” said Galahad. “Creeping around in the dark and digging up old clay pots is not my thing, but even I can see this is a major archaeological site. Why do the San Marcans keep it under wraps?”
“Long story,” said Jack. “There are secrets here the San Marcos government doesn’t want uncovered, science and history be damned. The army occasionally brings in a research team from San Marcos University under close supervision, but never outsiders. Oxford, Cambridge, Paladin, Harvard, and Penn have all been denied.”
“Might have done them a favor. It stinks down here.”
The corridor sloped gently downward. They passed several crèches and intersecting side passages, which Jack ignored, and scrambled over a ragged pile of stone and clay debris where a section of the wall had collapsed.
“Sure you know where we’re going?” asked Galahad.
“We should be well under the plaza now and almost to – yes! The Chamber of the Great Wheel.”
The passage opened into a circular room some thirty feet in diameter. Four doorways were apparent, including the one by which Jack and Galahad entered. In the center of the chamber was a cross-shaped dais aligned with the doors and approached by stairs at each of the four end points. At the head of each stairway was set a pair of short zapote wood posts, intricately carved and still bearing age-dimmed flecks of once bright paint. Atop the dais was a massive limestone wheel, ten feet in diameter, mounted horizontally on stone rollers. Its upper surface was covered with carved glyphs and symbols.
“Calendar stone?” asked Galahad.
&nbs
p; “Not exactly,” said Jack. He mounted the dais by the north side steps. Galahad followed. “This writing isn’t Mayan.”
“What then?”
Jack looked perturbed. “Helstrom wasn’t sure. Looking at it, neither am I. It resembles Akkadian cuneiform.”
Galahad nodded slowly. “Just what I was thinking. Clearly Akkadianish.”
“But, as you see, the syntax is wrong and the orthography inconsistent with exemplars of Akkadian script.”
“Yes, obviously.” Galahad turned in place, surveying the chamber. “Where’s your mural, man?”
Jack pointed down. “Under the Great Wheel.”
“We have to move this thing? It must weigh ten tons!”
“Fifteen,” said Jack. “But we only have to turn it a bit.”
Jack tugged at the nearest zapote post flanking the stairs, removing it easily. The tapered peg resembled a thick belaying pin. Jack inserted the peg into one of the twenty-four golf ball-sized holes drilled into the side of the great limestone wheel. It fit snugly.
He retrieved a second peg and handed it to Galahad. “Put this in the opposite hole. We give it one complete clockwise rotation, then reverse until this symbol” – he indicated a section of the wheel depicting a fish sacrifice atop a burning altar – “lines up there.” Jack pointed to one of thirty-six carved floor tiles that ringed the dais; it portrayed a weird grimacing frog.
“Looks like this was designed for eight men to push,” said Galahad dubiously.
Jack laughed. “We’re bigger and stronger than the Maya. Much better diet.”
Galahad placed the peg and they bent to the task, both men planting their feet and pushing hard against the handles. The great wheel did not budge.
“Needs oil,” said Galahad.
“Keep pushing,” said Jack, through gritted teeth.
Jack’s muscles bunched and strained. Galahad grunted with effort. Still, the wheel resisted. Then, with a scrape of stone against stone, the massive limestone disk moved. At first slowly, then with gathering speed.
“Like pushing...a merry-go-round,” said Jack.
“A merry-go-round made of rock,” said Galahad.