“Why?”
“Because the Tartarus Sunspot is the single hottest point on the surface of the Sun,” Zoe Kissane said, coming over and sitting down. “The ancient Greeks named it after one of the two realms of their Underworld. The nicer realm was Elysian Fields: it was a place of eternal happiness. The nasty one, a cursed land of screaming, flames, and punishment, was known as the Tartarus Plains.”
“Global temperatures have been rising steadily for twenty years now,” Epper said, “because the Tartarus Sunspot is approaching. When it shines directly upon the Earth, as it has done before, for about two weeks, temperatures will rise to unbearably high levels, around 110 degrees Celsius.
“Rainforests will shrivel. Rivers will boil. Human-kind will have to move indoors for that time. It will be a literal scorching of the Earth, but it is survivable.
“The problem is: the polar ice caps will melt, causing massive global floods. The oceans will rise by perhaps fifty feet. Many coastal cities worldwide will be severely damaged. But as I say, all that is survivable, given due warning.”
“OK …” Saladin said.
Epper wasn’t finished. “Now, we have geological records of similar mass global water risings in the past—specifically in the years 15000 B.C., 10500 B.C., and 6500 B.C.
“The flood of 15000 B.C. is believed to have been the giant oceanic movement that flooded the Persian Gulf; while the flood of 10500 B.C. is widely acknowledged as the ‘Great Flood’ mentioned in religious texts world-wide: Noah’s flood in the Bible, the floods mentioned in ancient Sumerian texts; even the Australian aborigines refer to a Great Flood in their Dreamtime folklore.
“The most recent global flood, that of 6500 B.C., broadly correlates with the worldwide episode of water rise known as the Flandrian transgression, where entire coastlines were submerged by about seventy feet.”
Epper leaned forward to make his point: “All three of these major global floods occurred during a Tartarus Rotation.
“The thing is,” he raised a finger, “in 2570 B.C., during the most recent Tartarus Rotation, no such mass global flooding took place.”
Saladin frowned. “You’re saying that something stopped the cataclysm. Something to do with the pyramids?”
“Yes,” Epper said. “It’s complicated but, you see, prior to King Djoser in 2660 B.C. the Egyptians never built pyramids. And after Menkaure in 2503 B.C. they stopped building giant ones. The fact is: for a period of 160 years, the Egyptians went on an absolute frenzy of pyramid-building, the high point of which was the Great Pyramid. And then they never did it again.
“They just stopped …immediately after the Tartarus Rotation of 2570 B.C. Later Egyptian architecture was certainly impressive and colossal—but it didn’t involve pyramids.”
“So you think the Egyptians knew something about the coming of this Tartarus Sunspot?” Saladin said. “What, were they visited by aliens or something and told to build the Great Pyramid and put this special Capstone on it?”
Epper just raised his bushy eyebrows theatrically. “I don’t know why the Egyptians started building pyramids. But they did. In a rush and on a scale never seen before then and not seen since. And for some reason, the Tartarus Sunspot had no effect on planet Earth in the year 2570 B.C. The Great Pyramid was built, the sunspot passed—harmlessly—and the Egyptians took down the Golden Capstone, hid it, and stopped building pyramids.”
“So how do you explain it?” Saladin asked. “Putting aside for the moment all the occultist literature, I believe the crystals in the Capstone are the key. I think the Capstone is a polarizer, a crystal array that absorbs the superhot rays of the Tartarus Sunspot, rendering them harmless.”
“And the occultist literature? These tales about obtaining global power for a thousand years.”
Epper’s face became grave. “The scientist in me scoffs at them. But something else gives me pause before discarding them completely. I’ve seen enough in my life to know that some things defy scientific explanation.
“The inscription on the summit of the Great Pyramid tells of placing the ‘Benben’ at sacred site, on sacred ground, at sacred height within seven days of the arrival of the minor sunspot, Ra’s Prophet.
“This is a reference to an ancient ritual, a ritual passed down through the Cult of Amun-Ra, a ritual to be performed at the arrival of the Tartarus Sunspot. This ritual involves the intoning of a sacred incantation—the words of which are carved into the very Pieces of the Capstone.
“But this ritual can be performed in two ways: one for good, the other for ill. With the Capstone in place atop the Great Pyramid, if you utter the noble incantation—known as the ritual of peace—the world will be spared the wrath of Tartarus and life will go on. This is also to our advantage: if we fail in our quest to obtain a Piece of the Capstone, we could yet be able to utter the good incantation over the replaced Capstone.”
“And the evil spell?” Saladin asked hesitantly.
Epper’s face went grim.
“The evil incantation—the ritual of power—will also spare the world from the blaze of Tartarus by capturing the Sun’s rays in the Capstone’s crystal array, but at a terrible price.
“For, according to the ancient texts, when the entire Capstone is placed on the summit of the Great Pyramid at noon on the seventh day and a designated amount of pure soil from one nation is placed in a crucible inside it and the ritual of power is uttered, ‘all earthly power’ will be invested in that nation for a thousand years.”
Epper stared at Saladin. “The Capstone is the ultimate test of mankind’s mettle. In the face of cataclysm, it can be used selflessly for the universal good, or it can be used selfishly, to attain absolute power.”
“Or there is the third option,” Saladin said. “Our option. If we obtain a single Piece of this Capstone and withhold it, we condemn the world to two weeks of catastrophic weather and floods, but not a thousand years of slavery. A lesser-of-two-evils argument, Dr. Epper?”
“Something like that,” Epper said quietly. “Either way, my Arab friend, the fate of the world now depends on our efforts.”
VICTORIA STATION
SOUTHERN KENYA
1996–2006
Within days of the historic meeting, the team was in Kenya—living and working and training—at a remote farm-station near the Tanzanian border. On a clear day, to the south they could see the mighty cone of Kilimanjaro peeking above the horizon.
Far from the Western World.
Far from their enemies.
The farm—very deliberately—had wide flat treeless pastures stretching for two miles in every direction from the central farmhouse.
There would be no unexpected visitors to this place.
The team raised few eyebrows among the locals.
To the Kenyans, Victoria Station was just another working farm, populated by a few foreigners, all working for the old man, Epper, and his lovely wife, Doris. Gray-haired, patient, and kind, she had come from Canada to join her husband on this mission and provide a much-needed grandmotherly figure on the farm.
Of course, the locals soon became aware of a baby girl on the property—every now and then, Doris or a worker from the farm would come into town to buy baby food, formula milk, diapers, and sometimes toys.
But the Kenyans simply assumed that the olive-skinned girl was the daughter of the young blond woman at the farm, who in turn was presumably the wife of one of the men.
The locals, however, never noticed that every single night, there were always two members of the team patrolling the perimeter of the property.
Lily grew up quickly.
Indeed, she transformed rapidly from a happy gurgling baby into an inquisitive toddler who on taking her first steps became an absolute security nightmare.
It was not uncommon to see seven crack commandos frantically upturning chairs, couches or hay bales trying to find a giggling little girl who could disappear seemingly at will.
Then she began to talk and to read.
Inevitably, she was the product of many influences.
When she saw Saladin kneeling toward Mecca, she asked him what he was doing. It was he who taught her about Islam—only growing tongue-tied once when, as a four-year-old, she asked him why Islamic women had to wear head-covering burqas.
“If they do not wear the burqa, men will not … er … respect them,” Saladin said, clearing his throat. “Zoe doesn’t wear a burqa,” Lily said.
Several members of the team were eating nearby at the time: Zoe, Epper, and West. Smiling, Zoe looked expectantly at Saladin, waiting for his answer.
“Well, no, she doesn’t, because she is not a Muslim.”
“But you can see her face, right?” Lily asked.
“Yes…”
“Which means, according to Islam, you mustn’t respect her.”
Saladin blushed bright pink. “Well, no …I do respect Miss Zoe. Very much.”
“Then why do all Muslim women have to wear these burqa things?”
Saladin was helpless.
It was Zoe who saved him. “Not all men are as gentlemanly as Zahir, Lily. They can’t control their urges as well as he can.”
“Urges?” Lily asked, zeroing in on the new word.
Zoe said, “And that is a topic we will address when you’re a little older.”
All this time, a sheet of paper hung in the kitchen, attached by a magnet to the refrigerator—on it were seven boxes, filled with a strange kind of writing, reproductions of the seven main verses in the Callimachus Text.
It looked like this:
It was positioned so that Lily saw it every day when she went to get her morning juice. When she asked what it said, Doris Epper answered: “We don’t know. We’re hoping that one day you’ll be able to tell us.”
When she hit five years of age, Max Epper took charge of her schooling, teaching her math, science, ancient history, and languages—with an emphasis on Latin, Greek, and the ancient form of writing, cuneiform.
It turned out she had a singular aptitude for languages, learning them quickly and fluidly—with almost unnatural ease.
By age seven, she had mastered Latin and Greek. By eight, she was deciphering Egyptian hieroglyphics.
By nine, she had outstripped Epper in his knowledge of cuneiform—translating all three of the ancient languages from the Bisitun Monument.
Not to mention the modern languages she was learning just by speaking with her multinational guardians. She particularly loved the difficult Gaelic tongue spoken by her Irish protectors, Zoe and Liam Kissane.
Epper was a wonderful teacher.
Lily just adored him—loved his wise old face, his kind blue eyes, and the gentle yet clever way he taught.
And so she renamed him Wizard.
Every day, she would race to his schoolroom in the east wing of the farmhouse to learn new and interesting things.
Poems like “The Charge of the Light Brigade” were acted out with verve and energy.
Simple arithmetic was illustrated with farming examples.
And science was a blast—literally. For Wizard had all manner of crazy homemade inventions in his workshop at the farm. Gadgets and tools that emerged from his dabblings in electromagnetism and foam poxies.
He once told Lily that a long time ago he had worked at a laboratory called Sandia in the United States, and that it was a secret place where they made secret things.
She liked that. Secret things.
She got along with the team members in different ways.
Although she herself wasn’t a very girly girl, Zoe taught Lily some necessary girly things—like brushing her hair, filing her nails, and how to make boys do her bidding.
Matador, the Spanish trooper, spent a lot of time in the gym they’d set up in the smaller barn. At first he let Lily watch him work out. Then, as she grew bigger, he let her sit on one end of a plank of wood while he bench-pressed it, balancing her mass with lead weights at the other end, lifting her high into the air. She loved that.
Witch Doctor, the Jamaican commando, taught her how to tread in silence—they would terrorize Doris Epper, sneaking up on her when she dozed on the veranda in the afternoon sun. But the soldier she bonded with most was Zoe’s brother, Liam, call sign Gunman.
Gunman was a big guy, broad and tall, easily six-foot-three—with a wide honest face, a fully shaven head, and large jug ears.
He wasn’t all that smart, but he was a great commando.
With Lily, though, he just clicked—perhaps because they were of an equal intelligence level, even though he was twenty-four and she was just a kid.
They watched movies and read books together. They played the video game Splinter Cell endlessly in dual-player mode—killing baddies left, right, and center, coordinating their moves with loud shouts and commands. They actually made a good team, winning the inaugural “Victoria Station Dual-Player Splinter Cell Competition,” defeating Wizard and Zoe in a hard-fought final.
They went on adventures around the station—including one visit to a giant hangar concealed in the western hills of the property, inside of which they found the towering Halicarnassus.
Lily gazed in awe at the great 747, and felt a thrill of excitement when she walked up to it, touched it and read a peculiar inscription on its underbelly: “president one—air force of iraq.”
But most of all, no one would ever forget the famous tea party held on the front lawn one summer, with Mister Bear, Little Dog, Big Dog, Barbie, Lily, and Gunman—huge Gunman, all six-foot-three of him, hunched over on a tiny plastic chair, sipping from a plastic teacup, allowing Lily to pour him another cup of imaginary tea.
Everyone on the team saw it—watching from inside the farmhouse, alerted by a whisper from Doris. The thing was: no one ever—ever—teased Gunman about the incident.
This was unusual.
They were soldiers. They could and did make fun of each other on a regular basis, but for some reason, Gunman’s relationship with Lily was off-limits.
Well, except for the time he and Lily broke into Aziz’s workshop in the big barn, took a plasticine-like substance from his lockbox and used it to blow up Barbie’s campervan.
Both Gunman and Lily caught hell for that.
And so, gradually, the team became a family—a family centered around the protection and nurturing of one little girl.
Of course, Lily loved the attention—like when she discovered ballet and put on a one-girl show to a cheering audience of seven commandos and two grandparent-like figures.
And still every day, when she appeared in the kitchen for breakfast, whoever happened to be there at the time would turn to see if she noticed the sheet of paper magnetized to the fridge.
But then one day, when she was seven, there was a commotion.
As the team had been eating breakfast, a radio squawked: “All units. This is Sentry One, I have an intruder coming in through the main gate.”
Everyone leaped up, alarmed at the presence of an outsider, worried that other nations might know of their mission.
The intruder turned out to be a lone man—tall and thin, with a sanguine face—walking casually down the dirt road from the main gate.
Three hidden guns were trained on him as he rang the doorbell.
Wizard answered the door. “Can I help you, young man?”
“Indeed you can, Professor Epper,” the thin man said. He had a dry pale face, with high cheekbones and deep hollow eye sockets.
Wizard blanched, did a double take.
The intruder’s gray eyes never blinked. He knew that he had just chilled Wizard to the very bone.
“Professor Max T. Epper,” he said, “Professor of Archaeology at Trinity College, Dublin, and the representative of Canada on a secret eight-nation task force protecting the daughter of the Oracle at Siwa, with a view to obtaining the lost Capstone of the Great Pyramid. My name is Lieutenant Benjamin Cohen, call sign Archer, formerly of the Sayeret Matkal, now of the Israeli Mossad. I’ve been sent
by my government to join your task force.”
West stepped out from behind Wizard.
“Why hello, Jack,” Archer said familiarly. “Haven’t seen you since Desert Storm. Heard about what you did at that SCUD base outside Basra. Very nice. And Israel appreciated your efforts; although we still don’t know how you got out. My bosses said you were involved in this, which was why they sent me. They thought you would accept me more than you would a total stranger.”
“They were right, Ben,” West said. “It’s the only thing keeping you alive right now.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger.” “Why not?” West said and for the briefest of moments, Archer’s confident air faltered.
West said, “I don’t like having my hand forced, Ben, and you’ve got us over a barrel here.”
Archer said seriously, “This is big, Jack. Affairs of state. Fate of the world and all that. This confrontation between Europe and the U.S. has been coming for a long time. Let’s just say, Israel always likes to be involved. If it makes you feel better, I have orders to place myself under your direct command.”
West pondered this a moment.
Then he said, “No contact with home. No reporting back to Mossad until the mission is achieved.”
“I have to report back sometime—”
“No reporting back to Mossad until the mission is achieved or I blow your brains out right now, Ben.”
Archer held up his hands, smiled. “Can’t argue with that. You’ve got a deal.”
The team was stunned—but they knew they didn’t have any choice in the matter.
Either they allowed Archer to join their team or the Israelis would just advise the Americans of their mission.
How the Israelis had discovered them, they didn’t know—but then Mossad is the most ruthless and efficient intelligence service in the world. It knows everything.
What was also apparent, however, was that Israel did not want to see the Capstone fall into the hands of either America or Europe—which meant Israel had an interest in the mission succeeding. That was good.
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