As he stepped out into the ruins and moved his flashlight side to side he realized what an impossible task this could be. The ancient site included several temples, basilicas, and atriums, some built on top of one another, forming layers of history. On the far side of the space was the Coliseum, which was brightly lit in the distance. That seemed as fitting a place as any for Hercules and his wraiths to hide out, but impossible to search in solitude. King sighed, not knowing where to begin.
Pierce clapped him on the shoulder. “Have no fear, George is here. This way. I have an idea.”
King followed Pierce into the ruins, descending a path of large flat stones spaced out just enough for tufts of grass to grow—the remains of an ancient roadway. The path was fenced in on both sides by short black metal fences that seemed more like a reminder to stay off the ruins than an actual deterrent. During the day the site might inspire awe, at night King felt the ruins looked more like some eerie underworld that housed creatures of the night. The truth, he knew, might not be far from that. But despite what he thought might be waiting for them under the earth, it was their exposure to onlookers that had him on edge. He couldn’t help but feel they were being watched. There was no evidence of it. Just his instincts.
Instincts he had come to rely on.
He drew his Sig Sauer pistol and held it in line with his flashlight. It wasn’t always effective against regenerating capybara, Hydras, Neanderthals, or giant rock monsters, but it almost always gave him a head start, and that could save his life, and Pierce’s.
TWENTY-TWO
Washington, D.C.
PRESIDENT DUNCAN SAT in the backseat of The Beast, a black stretched Cadillac with five-inch-thick military armor, run-flat tires, and bulletproof glass. The car could protect him from almost any enemy, except one: the press.
The assassination attempt on his life a year earlier, which almost led to a global pandemic, coupled with the fourth major attack on U.S. soil in the nation’s history, had the press swirling like vultures. This wasn’t a terrorist attack on civilians like the World Trade Center or Siletz Reservation, which rallied the nation together. It was an assault on the country’s most elite military facility. An act of war. Worse, it was a successful attack.
Thanks to the earlier successes of his presidential career, stamping out terrorist organizations around the world, the press saw this as retribution. To the world it looked like he’d picked fights with the world’s terrorist organizations and grossly underestimated their resources. Speaking volumes to this were the number of American dead and injured, not to mention the complete lack of enemy casualties.
Duncan and many of the soldiers at Bragg knew that was because the enemy had simply fallen to pieces, but he couldn’t very well say that on television. The American public would think him insane and incompetent.
Instead, he would do something he loathed. Something he had done only once before as president.
He would lie.
When the attack on the Siletz Reservation had gone public it was declared a terrorist attack. But with no one claiming responsibility and their investigations turning up no leads, the country’s anger had been swallowed and contained, but not forgotten. The country’s rage simply lay in wait for a target.
Once again, without an enemy to point his finger at, without a clear target of the nation’s wrath, not to mention the military’s, the American people would have no outlet for their anger. Unfortunately, there was always someone who would attempt to turn that anger toward his office. Presidents were blamed for scores of the world’s problems, especially when someone was gunning for the job. With an election year coming up, the political wolves smelled blood. Lance Marrs, a senator from Utah and the man who ran against Duncan in the last election (and lost), had come out with guns blazing. The man hit every media outlet that would have him, blasting Duncan for not only failing to prevent the attacks, but inviting them. It was the same old shtick from Marrs, but people were buying into it this time.
A small flat-screen TV that swung down from the car’s ceiling played his latest news conference. The man was doing his best to look presidential. Hair slicked back. Trophy wife waiting off to the side with a candy smile. Flag pin prominently on his chest. “Tom Duncan has failed the American people, not once, not twice, but three times now. When the good people of this nation elected him president, I accepted the decision. The people had spoken, and as one of the people, I accepted my defeat.”
“Horseshit,” Duncan murmured. The man had accused Duncan of fixing the election, called for recounts, and had even talked of a lawsuit. But with Duncan claiming nearly sixty percent of the vote, no one believed the results could have changed enough for Marrs to win.
“When Duncan put his hand on that Bible and was sworn in, he became the landlord for our nation. When something breaks, he’s supposed to fix it. And if our house is broken into, not once, but twice, installing a little security seems like an obvious step to take!” The statement was followed by cheers. “But he clearly neglected his duties to the people of this country. I used to think highly of President Duncan. I thought he was a good man. A man of character. But now I realize he is nothing more than a slum landlord!”
More cheers. Duncan was sure the crowd was stacked with former “Marrs for President” supporters, but it was still disturbing to see. In a time of crisis, when people are afraid, they tend to listen to the loudest voice. And right now that was Marrs.
And the results showed in the latest polls. A growing percentage of the population now thought Duncan was at least partially to blame for the attacks. Duncan turned off the TV and reminded himself that he’d suffered through worse, both in combat as an Army Ranger and on the campaign trail. Putting Marrs out of his mind, he took one last look at the speech in his hands and exited the vehicle.
The path from the car to the podium was clear of people save for his Secret Service escorts. Four of them waited, faces grim, hands ready to draw weapons if need be. They received or uncovered more than two hundred threats on his life in the last twenty-four hours and no one was taking chances. He scanned the roofs of the Fort Bragg barracks surrounding the quad and counted ten snipers. His eyes fell to the base of the buildings where a hurried reconstruction effort was under way. There would be no delay like at the World Trade Center. The military was in charge of the cleanup and repair and expected the base to not just be fully functional within the month, but also much more heavily fortified.
Duncan’s practiced confident stride didn’t falter when he saw the press, who had been allowed back on base for this press conference, turn and face him. Photographers snapped photos and Duncan met them with his handsome face held high. His eyes were set and serious. His shaved head and rigid posture letting the watching world know that this former man of action would take action. But while his body language spoke of a man ready to wage a war, his mind fought with the fact that the words he would offer were ultimately hollow.
General Keasling and Dominick Boucher, head of the CIA, waited for him at the podium that had been erected at the center of the quad. Construction vehicles were hard at work in the background, a strategic view to let the people know that recovery was already under way. The two men were his closest advisors on the subject of war. He nodded to them as he passed and ascended the podium steps.
The seated press suddenly stood, no longer able to control their brewing barrage of questions. A sea of voices flooded over him. He raised his hands for quiet, ignoring the individual voices.
When the press realized he wouldn’t be answering any questions yet, they quieted down and let him speak. He delivered his speech, offering contrived words and phony facial expressions. He asked for patience while they hunted down the identities of those responsible for the attack. He promised swift and just action. And he pleaded for calm and logic, reporting anything strange to the authorities instead of taking action into their own hands.
Much of this was the truth, but just as much was misdirection. Duncan knew th
e best deceptions were ninety-nine percent truth, so as he crafted his story, he worked in the truth about the number of dead, the monetary costs to rebuild, and the timing of events. But he added a layer of deceit when he placed blame on the Arab world. He mentioned Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Yemen by name. He dropped the names of known terrorist organizations and played the Osama bin Laden card. At the same time, he couldn’t blame any one of them specifically and no one was taking credit.
What made the deception worse was that his words fueled tensions around the world. Hate crimes against Arab-Americans would increase. Violence in the Middle East and Israel would continue. And actual terrorists, bolstered by the belief that some of their own had wounded the heart of the American military, would find their ranks replenished.
As Duncan took a breath, a daring reporter used the momentary silence to shout a question. “Senator Marrs has laid the blame for the deaths of several thousand United States citizens on your shoulders. How do you—”
Duncan’s frustration got the better of him. “Senator Marrs is a self-serving vulture,” he said, then immediately regretted it. His own anger was eating him up. He had no desire to be here. To be lying to these people. He needed to take action, not manage his reelection PR. Screw the upcoming election, he needed to get things done.
But his hands were tied. He knew that. Every action the president made during a crisis was scrutinized. Too much time fulfilling the duties of Deep Blue would garner unwanted attention for the team for whom secrecy was tantamount. When the Chess Team, when the world, needed Deep Blue the most, his duty as the president always got in the way.
As the sea of stunned reporters wrote down the quote that was sure to be the next morning’s headline, he said, “Thank you. That’s all for now.”
Duncan took the stairs down from the podium two at a time, catching the press off guard. Silence lingered for a moment before the din of questions came. Leaving the loud voices behind, he approached Keasling and Boucher. “This is a waste of time,” he grumbled.
Boucher matched the president’s stride as he walked back to The Beast. “It’s your job, sir.”
A Secret Service agent opened the rear door. Duncan paused before entering. He looked back over at the press who were being held at bay by a line of military security. It all seemed a ridiculous circus to him. He met Boucher’s eyes. “I know, Dom. I’m just starting to see things a little differently.”
Duncan climbed into the dark interior of the car and slid into the shadows. Before the Secret Service agent could close the door, Boucher climbed in next to him.
Duncan sighed. “What?”
As The Beast pulled away, Boucher smoothed his mustache and said, “Tom, this will all blow over.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“He’s a hot-air bag. People are going to realize that when the dust clears. They always do.”
“You’re assuming the dust will clear.” Duncan looked out the tinted, bulletproof window. The ruins of Fort Bragg passed by as they headed for Pope Air Force Base. “We don’t even know what we’re up against.”
“We will,” Boucher said, filling his voice with confidence. “You’ve got the best team—”
“An incomplete team.”
Boucher nodded. When Deep Blue was unavailable it took a team of CIA analysts and strategists to replace him. But the team could never operate at full efficiency without Deep Blue directly involved. When the CIA team handled ops they still needed executive approval on the big calls—decisions that could not be made from a press conference podium—the delay could cost lives. Having Deep Blue in the game gave the team real-time executive power. Fleets could be diverted, air support called in, or political pressure applied with a phone call.
“Even without you, they’re still the best. They’ll get the job done.”
“And if they don’t? If Marrs continues to control the airwaves?”
“He won’t.”
“You going to make him disappear?” Duncan said, a grin showing on his face.
“Don’t need to,” Boucher said before switching on the TV. It wasn’t Marrs on the screen. It was Duncan. “Senator Marrs is a self-serving vulture.”
“You came out swinging. The American people will remember you’re a fighter. And so will Marrs. He’s not going to want a second round.”
“I hope you’re right, Dom.”
“I’m a spook. I’m always right.”
TWENTY-THREE
Rome, Italy
“THE TEMPLE OF Saturn,” Pierce said as they rounded the ruins of an ancient temple that had been reduced to a foundation and eight columns supporting a worn but still impressive pediment. “The Senate and people of Rome restored what fire had consumed.”
“What?” King asked as he looked up at the impressive columns.
“The inscription,” Pierce said, panning his flashlight beam across the text etched into the pediment. “The original temple, which was the oldest structure in Rome, built in 498 B.C., was dear to the city. And when it burned down they rushed to rebuild it. In fact, they were in such a rush that one of the columns was placed upside down.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“For the builders more than the temple,” Pierce said. “It’s rumored those responsible were killed in the Coliseum.”
“The wrath of Saturn,” King said.
Pierce shook his head. “The wrath of Rome. Saturn was the god of agriculture.”
Pierce narrated the history of Rome in hushed tones like a conspiratorial tour guide. They continued onward from the temple, following the serpentine path as it twisted past what little remained of the Milliarium Aureum. It was once a statue of Augustus Caesar where all roads in the Roman Empire were said to begin, but had long since been reduced to a marble base.
Next came the Arch of Tiberius, which was little more than a foundation for an arch, whose history and significance had been long forgotten. Beyond the arch, they walked along the side of the Basilica Julia, which stretched out on their right. A long line of marble steps led up to a large rectangular area filled with rows of foundation pylons and a mash of scattered stones and blocks. The building, which housed shops, courts, and banks had once been a favorite gathering place for Romans. So much so that checkerboards had been found carved into some of the steps. But the building held no interest to Pierce, whose narrative ended as soon as they were past that stretch of ancient city.
He paused at the corner of the Basilica Julia and raised his hands toward three, tall, fluted columns glowing orange in the nighttime lighting. The columns, which looked like they could fall apart in a stiff wind, still held a piece of entablature on top. “I give you the temple of Castor and Pollux.”
“Castor and Pollux,” King repeated, recalling his Greek history. “They were twins who helped defeat the Tarquins.” His eyebrows rose. “Also the sons of Jupiter, aka, Zeus, aka the legendary half father of Hercules. This could be it.”
Wasting no time, King hopped the fence, climbed the shambled staircase, and entered the ruins, which were raised up several feet atop what remained of the foundation. As Pierce debated following—this was a major breach of archaeological protocol—he noticed that King had his weapon drawn. Knowing King would not do so without reason, he climbed over the fence and followed his friend into the remains of the ancient temple.
Entering a clearing at the center of the temple ruins, Pierce found King quickly moving from one feature to the next. Foundation stones, step fragments, wall remains—nothing escaped his scrutiny. “Any particularly interesting history I should know about?” he asked.
“Nothing outstanding. The location of the temple is supposed to be where Castor and Pollux came to water their horses after their successful battle. The Senate gathered here for a time and later housed a few different Roman offices, but nothing extraordinary.”
“And nothing related to Hercules.”
“Just the lineage.”
“Then what should I be looking for?”
“The Herculean Society’s symbol.” King frowned. He’d hoped Pierce’s lead would be more substantial, but they were searching for a location that had been kept secret in the heart of Rome for thousands of years. It wouldn’t be found that easily.
Slowed by the loud revelry of nearby late-night Roman parties and the rumble of vehicles, both of which kept King on edge for intruders, they spent an hour searching every nook and cranny of the site.
And found nothing.
Sweating from the humid Roman heat and discouraged by the apparent dead end, King sat on a stone and looked up at the cloudy sky. Silhouetting the temple’s three columns, the moon’s glow had just begun to pierce the thinning cloud cover.
Pierce sat next to him. “Sorry. This was the best I could come up with.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. I asked you on a hunch to find something that might not even be here. This was my idea.”
“Your hunches typically save a lot of lives.”
“Not always the ones that matter.”
Pierce stood. “Well, we’ve looked everywhere at this site. I think we should check out the temple of Jupiter. We’ve got a few hours of darkness left.”
After walking a few steps, Pierce turned around and found King still sitting. His eyes were fixated on the three columns. “What?”
“We haven’t looked everywhere,” King said before standing and heading for the columns.
Pierce realized what King was about to do and attempted to voice a protest. “King, wait. You can’t—”
But King was already scaling one of the outside columns like a champion logger. Pierce flinched as he heard crumbs of column falling onto the marble base. If Augustina finds out about this, he thought, she might turn me in herself.
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