by Bob Mayer
Once he was sure everything was working fine, O’Callaghan let his co-pilot take the controls. He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, saving his energy for when he would need it.
The time was right. The Airlia had scanned the data banks, quickly getting up to speed on the present situation. A long finger reached out and lightly touched various points on the master control console. The program for first-echelon resuscitation was continued.
Checking the sensors, there was one other minor detail that needed to be taken care of. The alien instructed the computer to send a message to Earth.
Larry Kincaid didn’t break anything when he got the order to abort the attempt to stabilize and reorient Surveyor, which was a case of considerable restraint on his part. The message had come in the clear from Mars just moments ago and UNAOC had relayed the “request” from the Airlia not to have the region overflown again.
UNAOC didn’t consider the probe important anymore, and there was no desire in New York or anywhere else on the planet to go against the wishes of the Airlia.
“What the hell do you want me to do with Surveyor?” Kincaid asked his manager.
“I don’t give a shit, Larry,” his boss answered. “Just keep it away from the Airlia base.”
“You wonder why they don’t want us to get a closer look?” Kincaid asked.
“No.” Seeing Kincaid’s look of disgust, the manager amplified his answer. “Don’t you get it? We’re dinosaurs here, Larry. When the Airlia get here in those ships our space program is going to look like a bunch of hand-pulled carts next to an Indy 500 car. Things are changing and this entire program is going to be out of date in another day.”
“It’s our program,” Kincaid said. “What makes you think the Airlia are going to share their technology with us?”
“Just do what you’re told. Surveyor’s been a disaster anyway. Let it go.”
Kincaid rubbed a hand across his forehead and bit back his sarcastic reply. He walked back to the control room and sat down. He started calculating to see if he could put Surveyor on a stable orbit that didn’t overfly Cydonia, when he sensed someone behind him. He turned in his seat. The pale, white-haired man was standing there, sunglasses looking in Kincaid’s general direction. Kincaid stared at him, but it was hard to win a stare-down when the other person wore shades.
“What?” Kincaid finally snapped.
“Stabilize Surveyor as you planned,” the man said.
“Say what?” Kincaid looked at the man’s clearance tag. There was only one name written there: Coridan. The clearance level said ST-8. The tag’s scarlet, almost black, clearance indicator color showed that ST-8 was higher than anything Kincaid had ever dealt with before.
Coridan held out a piece of paper. “I’ve calculated what you need to do to stabilize the craft’s orbit immediately. Once the burn is done, shut everything down and put the onboard computer to sleep and shut down the IMS.”
“And then?” Kincaid asked.
“And then wait.”
“I just got ordered to stand down,” Kincaid said. “Why should I do this?”
“Because I have authorization higher than your boss’s.” Coridan tapped his badge. “And because you don’t trust the Airlia and I don’t either.”
Turcotte had witnessed death many times in his time in the army. He’d once been part of an elite counterterrorist force in Europe where he had done his own share of killing. But what he was about to witness bothered him because it all seemed so pointless, man against man, when there was so much more at stake.
Harker had deployed his team on the hillside above the entrance of the tomb. The snipers had bolted together their rifles and zeroed their night-vision scopes on the Chinese soldiers manning the machine gun at the entrance to the small courtyard. The rest of the team was waiting, ready to slide down the mountain.
Harker turned to Turcotte, who was lying next to him. “I don’t like this,” he whispered. “What’s so fucking important in that tomb?”
“I don’t know,” Turcotte answered. He didn’t have the heart, time, or energy to make Harker feel better.
“It’s your call,” Harker said.
“Do it.” Turcotte said the words flatly.
“Fire,” Harker said in a slightly louder voice.
The two sniper rifles fired at the same time, a jet of flame coming out of the end of the barrel, the only sound the working of the bolt sliding back in the breech. Each round was a hit, knocking back the two soldiers manning the machine gun.
The sniper rifles continued firing as the rest of the team slid down the mountainside, weapons at the ready. By the time they got to the entrance level, all twelve Chinese soldiers were dead.
“Let’s go,” Turcotte said to Nabinger. He grabbed the other man’s arm and helped him down the steep hillside.
Howes, the demo man, was already at the doors, looking them over. Turcotte walked over to the vehicle. A radio set was inside, the screen lit. He knew that meant that the dead operator had probably been doing regular checks in with higher headquarters and when he failed to make the next scheduled contact, they could expect PLA troops in force.
“Stand back,” Howes called out.
There was a sharp crack and the door split open.
“Let’s move it,” Turcotte ordered.
Che Lu stood up as the rest of the group stirred at the sound of the explosion reverberating up the tunnel.
“We have company,” Kostanov said. He snapped out some commands in Russian and his men prepared their weapons.
“I suggest you keep your people here,” Kostanov said. “We’ll see who’s come knocking.”
Turcotte took the lead, putting Nabinger near the rear. They left Howes and DeCamp to guard the doorway. Through the night-vision goggles Turcotte could see the tunnel clearly. He recognized the smooth stonework as being similar to what he had seen in the complex in the Great Rift Valley and at Area 51.
Even trying to move stealthily, he could hear the scraping of his boots on the floor, and his own breathing sounded unusually loud. The sound of the men right behind bothered him, disturbing his concentration.
Turcotte halted, holding his hand up, and the group froze. He could have sworn he’d heard a noise. Turcotte held his submachine gun at the ready. “Professor Che Lu?” he called out.
An accented voice came out of the dark. “She’s busy. Who may I say is asking for her?”
Turcotte knew that voice and that accent. He searched in his memory for when and where. He could make out what appeared to be an intersection in the tunnel about fifty meters ahead.
“Gruev?” Turcotte asked.
A figure walked out of the side tunnel. Turcotte quickly pulled off his goggles as the man turned on a large flashlight, bathing the tunnel in its glow. Turcotte squinted as he walked toward the man. He recognized him when he was ten meters away.
“Kostanov!”
“Captain Turcotte.” Kostanov gave a mock bow. “Fancy meeting you here.”
“You were Russian all along,” Turcotte said. “All that stuff you told us on the carrier was bullshit.”
Kostanov shook his head. “What I told you was mostly the truth, but we don’t have time for that now.”
“Maybe we ought to make time,” Turcotte said.
“We don’t have time,” Kostanov insisted. “I will explain all later.”
“What have you found in here?” Turcotte asked.
“A control room.” Kostanov was looking past Turcotte. “Ah, Professor Nabinger, there is something you must see.” He snapped something in Russian to his right. “I am sending one of my men to get Professor Che Lu. Then we go that way.” He pointed to his left.
Captain Rakes squinted into the wind as the second helicopter settled down on the helipad. He waited until the blades on both birds stopped turning and then walked out to the lead one. He was already disquieted by the fact that both helicopters bore no markings. He recognized the type: Sikorsky UH-60. But he’d ne
ver seen a UH-60 Blackhawk with a flat black paint job and the extra fuel tanks hung on small wings above the cargo bay.
With those extra tanks they must be flying an awfully long way, Rakes estimated. That made him feel even more uneasy. The only country in three directions was China. And those birds had come from the fourth direction. He didn’t think the Navy would go through all the trouble of moving his ship here to meet two helicopters that were going to just refuel and go back to where they had started from. Of course it wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibilities. He’d done stranger things in his time in the Navy.
Rakes watched warily as the pilot got out of the first chopper and walked over to him.
“Evening, sir,” O’Callaghan said. “We’d appreciate it if your men could top our birds off and if you could find the four of us a quiet place to get some rest for a couple hours. We’re not leaving again until just before dark.”
Rakes designated one of his ensigns to show the pilots a stateroom where they could rest.
“Ours is but to do and die,” Rakes muttered to himself as he turned and went back to his bridge, where at least he was in charge of something.
“Damn, it’s cold,” Emory sputtered between chattering teeth.
Downing had expected the civilian to be the first to say something about the freezing temperature inside the Greywolf. Condensation had formed on all the fittings, and the drip of water was the predominant sound inside the submersible. The dim glow from the control panel was the only light, other than the occasional flicker from a foo fighter passing one of the portals.
Downing looked at his depth gauge. They had lost another two hundred meters in the last hour. Still not too bad. The problem was that as the submersible got even colder, it would lose more of its buoyancy and then depth might become a problem.
“How long are we going to wait?” Emory asked for the fifth time in the last hour.
Downing didn’t bother to answer. He pulled his flight suit in tighter around his body and tried to keep from shivering.
“Why doesn’t UNAOC contact this Aspasia guy and ask him to call off the foo fighters?” Emory demanded, his voice on edge.
That was a new question, one that Downing had already considered and knew the answer to. “Because UNAOC doesn’t know we’re down here,” he said.
“Then who the hell gave the order for us to go here?” Emory demanded.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Downing said. “But I would suppose it’s the same person who gave the orders for those L.A.-class attack subs to be hanging around.”
At the Cube, Kelly Reynolds was playing the role of spectator, and it didn’t bother her in the slightest. The images that had been beamed from the Surveyor IMS, showing the Airlia craft on the surface of Mars, had kept her glued to the TV set in the control center. There had been activity around the ships, but the resolution on the IMS camera had not been such that they could make out what the activity was. There was no doubt, though, that the ships were being readied. Surveyor was now shut down and the Hubble had taken over the watch.
A series of red digits was in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, and they had been there, slowly winding down, ever since the timing of the Airlia landing had been announced. In less than forty-two hours the alien craft would be touching down in Central Park.
That timing fueled speculation as to the capabilities of the ships inside the Fort. It was obvious that if they were going to cross the distance between Mars and Earth in a little over a day, then they would have to attain tremendous velocity. It was just one more technological wonder that the scientists and most Earth people hoped they would have access to shortly. There was also speculation about where those six ships had come from. There was a bay inside the mothership with cradles specifically designed to hold the bouncers. But there was no place inside the ship where these “talon ships,” as the media had dubbed them, could have been carried on an interstellar journey.
The answer had been advanced by several analysts around the globe at roughly the same time, so it was hard to pinpoint who exactly should get credit for it: the talons had not been carried inside the mothership, but rather outside it. Calculating as best they could with the IMS image, scientists determined that the talon ships would fit around the curved front nose of the mothership.
That conclusion had led to further speculation that the talons, both because they were transported in such a ready position and because they simply looked so fierce, were warships. Concern about that had quickly been allayed by UNAOC when it was pointed out that if the Airlia had wanted to do humans harm, they could have most easily done so before they flew the talons from Earth to Mars so many millennia ago. Besides, Aspasia was the protector of the human race, UNAOC added.
Turning her gaze from the screen, Kelly wondered about her friends and how they were doing in China. Occasionally the news shifted from the pending alien contact to more immediate matters here on Earth. Iran’s blustering at the Iraq border had not yet turned into a shooting war, but it was close.
From China the news was also grim. There were reports of fighting on the outskirts of Beijing and in the streets of Hong Kong. PLA forces were entering the newly acquired city in large numbers and there were rumors of massacres and Taiwanese commandos fighting alongside the students.
But of the ancient tomb Qian-Ling there were no rumors or reports. And for that Kelly was grateful. She had the greatest confidence in Captain Turcotte and she was sure he would see Professor Nabinger through whatever they were doing and return safely. And hopefully in time to see the Airlia land, Kelly thought to herself as the screen once again shifted to the Fort and the Airlia spacecraft.
Kelly reached out a hand and touched the screen. “So beautiful,” she whispered, her fingers running over the image of the ships. “So beautiful.”
“Can you figure it out?” Turcotte asked Nabinger.
They were in the control room, along with Kostanov and his men and Che Lu and her students.
“My God, there’s never been a find like this,” Nabinger said, looking at the various consoles and panels. “Even the room on Easter Island was nothing compared to this.”
“No guardian computer, though,” Turcotte noted.
“Not here,” Nabinger agreed. He pointed to the far wall. “But who knows what’s in there? Plus there’s the central passageway, which no one has gone down yet.”
“Yeah, because you’ll get cut in half if you try,” Turcotte noted.
“Can you get us in there, Professor?” Kostanov asked, nodding his head toward the far wall. “We do not have much time.”
“What is the rush?” Che Lu asked.
“The PLA is going to be knocking on the door soon,” Turcotte said, “and they’re not going to be happy.”
“Plus, as you told us,” Kostanov noted, “Aspasia will be on Earth in less than forty-two hours.”
“And?” Turcotte prompted. “What does this have to do with that? Isn’t this Aspasia’s equipment?”
“It’s Airlia equipment,” Kostanov said, “but I don’t think it’s Aspasia’s.”
“The rebels?” Nabinger asked.
“We believe so,” Kostanov said.
“Who’s we?” Turcotte demanded.
“Section Four has been tracking all of this for a very long time,” Kostanov said.
“If you’ve been tracking this for so long, why is it so important that you uncover this base now?” Turcotte said.
“Because the Airlia are coming.” He turned to Nabinger. “Professor, what can you tell us about this room?”
“It’s a control center,” Nabinger said. He was looking at the console.
“Controlling what?” Che Lu asked.
“This.” Nabinger waved a hand absently around his head. “This entire complex. From what I can gather, this entire mountain was built to house”—he paused, his eyes running over high rune symbols—“to house the equipment in the other room that we passed getting in here—and
—”
“And?” Kostanov prompted.
In reply, Nabinger pushed his right hand down onto the panel. A red glow suffused the black top, outlining more high rune symbols.
“What are you doing?” Turcotte asked.
Nabinger ignored those around him, concentrating on what was before him. His hands hovered over the top of the console for a long minute. A group of hexagons, fitted tightly together, appeared. Nabinger pressed his hand down on the hexagon field in a certain sequence. Everyone in the control room took a step back as there was a loud humming noise. A crack appeared along the edges of the door in the far wall as it began to slide upward. Turcotte and the other Green Berets instinctively swung up the muzzles of their guns to cover the door, as did Kostanov and his men.
Nabinger walked through their line of fire and disappeared into the room. Turcotte was next through and he was half expecting what he saw as he stepped through. Sitting in the center of a small room hewn out of the rock was a six-foot-high pyramid, the surface glowing with a golden haze that extended out a few inches from the material that it was made of.
Turcotte also wasn’t surprised when Nabinger walked right up to the pyramid and put his hands on the surface, the golden glow extending around the archaeologist as if he had become part of the machine.
Exactly on schedule O’Callaghan smoothly banked his aircraft away from the O’Bannion and headed for the shore. He adjusted the throttle for maximum fuel conservation and they were on their way, skimming along at fifty feet above the waves at 130 knots.
The sun was starting to settle in the sky and he knew that soon, just before they reached the shore, it would be dark, which was just the way they had it planned. Just under six hours of flying to the pickup zone.
The sound of automatic fire echoed dully into the chamber. Turcotte’s head snapped up and he grabbed his MP-5 before hustling out the door, followed by the rest of his men and Kostanov. Turcotte had sent Howes and DeCamp to guard the entrance as soon as Nabinger had made contact with the pyramid.