Since he was a child, al-Aziz had known that Allah had plans for his life, that he would be used as an instrument of Allah’s will on earth. Abdul had discovered his path to martyrdom. Al-Aziz knew his own path would soon reveal itself.
He edged closer to the jungle and raised his binoculars to his eyes. He could see the delegates clearly. The only ones not preoccupied were the Americans: three men, all standing still, arms crossed. Al-Aziz hadn’t seen them move once. Only their heads turned, from side to side.
Al-Aziz lowered his binoculars quickly as one of the men looked his way. They were watching! The dogs did not trust them! Typical Americans. Lack of trust was just one of the evil attributes that culture had produced. Lust, greed, envy, lies, deceit, murder, and chaos were all at home in America. Al-Aziz had been taught that order could only be found through culling the chaos, through jihad. A holy war against the evil in the world. That was what America represented. Evil.
He hadn’t always believed such things. His father had been a peace-loving carpenter and a good Muslim. But during the Americans' “Desert Storm,” he’d been shot and killed. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” one of the soldiers had told him. It was the closest thing to an apology al-Aziz ever received. He’d been only ten years old at the time and might have taken his father’s death as an honest accident. But his mother, indignant and repulsed by the incident, had fled from Iraq to Pakistan, where she began her children’s education in the ways of jihad.
He’d resisted the training for years, watching as men were shot, hung, beheaded, and disemboweled before his eyes. But even as he resisted their ideals, he excelled at weapons and explosives training. At times he was little more than a captive among his own people. Those who didn’t fully embrace the cause only left the community through death. But as time passed, the killings and teachings that were so different from his father’s peaceful ways offended him less and less.
It wasn’t until the Americans returned with their “Operation Iraqi Freedom” that he began to see them as the destroyers he’d been taught they were. Iraq was once again inundated with foreign troops and the blood of his people, innocent Iraqis like his father, was again spilled. Still he clung to his father’s teachings of love and peace.
The day his mother had walked up to an American roadblock and detonated the bomb strapped to her chest, taking the lives of five soldiers along with her own, al-Aziz truly recognized the glory of jihad. In that moment, his mother ceased to be a living being, but through her act of martyrdom became immortalized in history as a most dedicated servant of Allah—one who would give his or her life. His father’s teachings died with his mother and al-Aziz took her place in Ansar al-Sunna, a militant organization dedicated to reclaiming Iraq for Islam. But Allah had other things in mind. The global catastrophe struck six months later, and the Arab world united. Al-Aziz, his closest friend Abdul, and six of his other Ansar al-Sunna brothers volunteered for the Antarctic mission as soon as it was announced.
And now they were here. Ready to serve the will of Allah. He smiled. His mother would be proud.
Al-Aziz whispered a prayer to Allah that Abdul would go undetected, that he would carry his holy mission to fruition. He looked through his binoculars, out into the clearing again, and found that all three Americans had turned away.
He spotted Abdul running, crouched low, behind a large stone that kept him hidden from the delegates. He was very close. Within fifty yards. The distance could be covered in seconds as long as no one saw him.
Al-Aziz saw Abdul taking quick peeks around the stone. He was waiting patiently for the right time to strike. Allah loved a patient man, because impatient men often failed. Al-Aziz saw the Americans turn away. He searched the rest of the delegates. No one looked in Abdul’s direction.
Abdul crept from his position and made a mad dash toward the delegates. At the last moment, he would shout praises to Allah and detonate the bomb strapped to his body, taking himself to heaven and sending the rest to hell. Abdul was ten steps into his charge when a violent splash of red erupted from his chest.
Al-Aziz gasped. He’d been shot!
Al-Aziz frantically searched the area. A muzzle flash spat from the jungle not far from where Abdul had exited. The second shot tore through Abdul’s right leg. He began to fall, but even in death he did not forget his obligation. He raised his hand toward the sky, thumb on the detonator. He might not kill them all, but at this range many of the delegates would still die.
Binoculars in position, al-Aziz waited for Abdul’s thumb to depress the trigger and finish his martyrdom. Just as al-Aziz thought the moment had come, a third flash from the jungle was followed by an explosion of red from Abdul’s wrist. The button would not be pushed. Abdul had failed.
For a moment, al-Aziz contemplated making a noble charge himself but realized someone had planted a sniper in the jungle. He would make it no further than Abdul had.
No, al-Aziz thought. Allah has a better path for me.
He turned away from the clearing and tore into the jungle. The race had begun.
Chapter 34
The monotonous sound of metal blades slicing through vegetation filled the jungle. Lined up in formation, fifteen men wide, the Chinese soldiers hacked their way through the jungle, clearing a path wide enough for a future freeway. Creating a wide path was hard work, but a single-file line was not an option. What good was a force of two hundred if they couldn’t see or support each other?
That was General Zhou’s theory. Tight formation and efficient work would get them safely to the finish line first. Every ten minutes, the fifteen men in front would step to the side and rest, taking up the rear after the other 185 men passed. The next fifteen in line would begin hacking, and the line would continue moving steadily forward without exhausting the men or slowing.
Of course, the men also knew that if they should quit or fall from exhaustion, they’d be shot. Zhou didn’t think he was a cruel man; he felt enormous pride in his men and how well they represented the strength of their homeland. He kept them well hydrated after entering the jungle and the breaks provided after ten minutes’ cutting ensured that every man got to rest.
Zhou was confident he wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.
The men proved him wrong.
Zhou had positioned himself at the center of the large force. He knew that if he were to fall in battle, disorder would consume the men. Lei would be in charge if Zhou was lost, and he wasn’t entirely confident the boy could handle a force this size on his own. Not yet.
It was from his view at the center of the force that Zhou first noticed the anomaly working its way toward him. The men were stopping. In under a minute, the entire group had stopped dead in its tracks. Zhou knew that the only person who could have ordered a halt was his son. Lei tracked the ten minute work times and kept the men moving at the front of the formation.
He’d regret having to shoot his son. But if there wasn’t a good reason for the delay, Zhou would have no choice. Giving preference to any one man, even a family member, could spark dangerous dissention. A second change in the men surrounding Zhou told him Lei believed there was a good reason to stop. A single clenched fist from the man at the center of each line, moving in a wave from front to back, issued a command to take defensive positions.
A flurry of emotions took hold of Zhou. Attack could be looming. Danger. So soon? He realized that could not be true. Even if the Americans had come straight for them, it would take weeks to traverse the distance! The thought made Zhou fearful: if Lei had indeed called for defensive positions in error, he would certainly have to shoot his son.
The men around him took action. Those on the outer fringe knelt on one knee and took aim at the surrounding jungle. Those behind them took aim and remained standing. Any living thing in the jungle would be cut down by wave after wave of bullets. All the forces involved in this race combined couldn’t stand against the fury of his men.
For a full minute the men remained tense, focused. Zhou
waited. An attack never came, and he realized it would never come. Stepping through the lines, Zhou made his way forward, gun in hand. He was greeted by a breathless man wielding a machete, a man from the front line.
“Why have we stopped?” he said to the man. “Report.”
The man took a deep breath and spoke quickly. “Sir, Commander Lei is gone.”
Zhou’s eyebrows shot up and his heart skipped a beat. Had his son deserted?
“Explain.”
“We were cutting through the jungle. It was very loud.” The man paused as though unsure how to continue. He looked at the ground. “There was a noise, like . . . like dogs. Howling. But it was hard to hear.”
Zhou nodded, giving no impression of his growing rage. Howling should not have stopped their advance or caused his son to flee!
“Lei ordered a pause so he could hear the noise. He feared an enemy was lurking.”
Foolish, Zhou thought. If Lei had any mind, he would have realized that their enemies were still too far off.
The man continued with his tale: Lei had taken five men to investigate. That was when the defensive order was given.
“And?”
“Lei and the men did not return.” The man squirmed. He didn’t want to report what had happened.
“Soldier,” Zhou said, pointing his pistol at the man’s chest, “finish your report in the next thirty seconds. China has no time to wait for the fear of men.”
The soldier stood straight to regain some of his professional posture. “Sir, there were sounds in the jungle, like fighting.”
“I didn’t hear any gunfire.”
“Not guns, sir.” The man looked down at his machete. “Sir, I led a second team of ten into the jungle after them. We found the bodies—”
Concealing his boiling emotions became a challenge. He’d suffered casualties without a shot being fired. It was shameful.
“They had . . . sir, they . . .”
“Take me to them.”
The man looked relieved that he didn’t have to speak anymore. He bowed, spun around, and hurried back toward the front of the line. Zhou followed him, noticing the whispers filtering through the ranks. He’d have to put an end to this.
Zhou cleared the front line, striding confidently, as though nothing had ruffled his feathers. The men would follow his lead. He barked an order at the two front lines. Thirty men quickly fell in behind him, weapons at the ready. The reporting soldier led them forward into the jungle.
“They’re just beyond,” the man said, nodding his head toward the brush.
Zhou nodded, ordered the men to fall behind but to stay ready, and stepped beyond the brush. What he found on the other side was unlike anything he’d seen in all his years of military service. He’d seen men shot and stabbed, even blown to bits. But nothing topped the scene he now faced. Four men, stripped of their uniforms, lay on the ground, headless and quartered.
Zhou bent down and inspected the nearest body, taking care not to step in the growing pool of blood. The limbs had not been cut free; they’d been pulled. The wrists and ankles of the body had been crushed where something had taken hold and yanked. The shoulder bone of the arm at Zhou’s feet protruded from the torn flesh. The heads, frozen in a twist of agony, lay together several feet away. Some were crushed.
Just as the soldier had reported, Lei was nowhere to be seen. Having seen the carnage, he would not blame his son for fleeing, if that’s what had happened. Zhou inspected the surrounding area. He found large patches of crushed terrain where something heavy had walked. Looking up, he noticed several broken tree limbs. The attackers came from above.
Zhou had seen enough.
He pounded back through the brush and shouted a command that snapped all the men’s weapons up toward the trees. After returning to the ranks five men short, Zhou turned to the man who had led the second team and reported the event. “What is your name?”
“Jun Shan,” the man replied.
“Take Lei’s place. Lead the men around then resume on course. No stopping. Keep the men together. We will not be taken off guard again.”
Jun nodded. “Yes, sir. And what of Captain Lei, sir?”
“If he returns, welcome him. If you find his body, inform me. If he does not return . . . he is lost to us.”
Jun nodded again.
Zhou returned to his position at the center of the group. The idea of leaving his son to an enemy was worse than the idea of shooting him for desertion. A pang of guilt struck Zhou as he realized he’d assumed the worst of his son. The boy’s actions had been appropriate and brave. Zhou’s thoughts turned to his own father. He remembered the man rushing to his aid as childhood bullies pummeled him for being smaller. He had taught him it was noble to protect the weak, but Zhou listened to the voice in his heart, which cried for revenge. And now, when his son had needed his protection the most, his first thought was to shoot the boy. Lei had most likely been taken as a prisoner to be interrogated and tortured, a fate no soldier deserved.
When the race was over and won, he pledged to find the attacker of his men and son. His father might have been right, but the voice in Zhou’s heart shouted louder than ever before: vengeance would be his.
Chapter 35
“So you believe that giants used to live here?” Cruz asked over his shoulder before chopping straight through the base of a small tree and kicking it over. He continued past the fallen tree followed by Merrill, Whitney, and Wright. Vesuvius trotted next to Mirabelle, nuzzling her hand for a pat. Ferrell was somewhere ahead, on point.
Merrill thought for a moment as he stepped over the fallen sapling. “Not on the scale of the jolly green giant, mind you, but to us, yes. They would be considered giants.”
Four days previously, the trek had become arduous and conversation moved at a pace quicker than their progress through the jungle. It served as a nice distraction from the burning muscles, sticky sweat, and gnat-like swarms that congested the air with little panicked bodies. The subject had gone from classic cars, to true Mexican food, to favorite books, and finally to the bones Merrill had uncovered back in the valley.
Merrill began to feel the first pangs of frustration. Cruz had vehemently doubted Merrill’s assertion from the get-go. Merrill expected such treatment from his scientific colleagues but could hardly tolerate it from a demolitions expert.
Cruz continued hacking at the vines and brush, cutting a wide path for the others to follow. “So how big are we talking here? Eight feet? Nine?”
Merrill sighed. He knew in advance what Cruz’s reaction would be. “The specimens I found ranged from ten to fifteen feet.”
Cruz laughed loudly. “The Lakers could use some of those guys, eh? Fifteen feet! You find some new plant species to smoke while you were on your own?”
“Hey, chico,” said Mira, “when you learn to do anything other than blow things up and make tacos, then you can criticize my father’s work.”
Cruz snorted. “You have some testosterone for breakfast, Whit?”
“You have enough for all of us.”
“I can share, if you want.”
Hearing Cruz talk to Mira like that quickly wore thin on Merrill. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and slap the flat edge against the side of Cruz’s head. Instead, he steered the topic back on course. “Mirabelle saw the bones. She will support my claim.”
“That’s right,” she said. “And the Crylophosaurus.”
“Crylo what?”
“Crylophosaurus,” Merrill said. “A native predator similar to Allosaurus, but smaller. They ranged in size from ten to twenty feet long from tail to snout. They could easily take care of you or me. The first fossils were found on Mount Kirkpa trick, not far from where we’re headed. They had a horned crest on the top of their head that looked a little like a crown. It grew just above their eyes and probably served both defensive and offensive roles, but was more likely designed to attract a mate.”
“Sorry for butting in,” Wright said fro
m behind. He’d remained quiet most of the time, keeping his senses sharp. “But how could you have found a dinosaur and a giant man together? Men didn’t appear on earth until long after the dinosaurs died.”
“Too true,” Merrill said. “It was believed that crylo lived during the Jurassic period, and I’m not saying it didn’t, but I believe it adapted to survive the freezing and thawing periods that Antarctica regularly goes through.”
“How regularly?” Wright asked.
“Every twelve thousand years, give or take a few thousand. It’s not an exact science yet.”
“And they went extinct during the last freeze, when men lived on Antarctica?”
“Did I say they went extinct? No, no, I didn’t.”
“Well, of course, I just assumed—”
Merrill’s head swiveled back toward his daughter. “You didn’t tell them?”
Mira’s eyes were wide. “I thought you did.”
Cruz paused mid-swing. He turned around. “This ought to be good.”
Merrill faced Wright, whose face reflected the seriousness of his inquiry. “Crylophosaurs . . . did not become extinct, Captain. They are among us now.”
Wright’s face lost some color. Cruz laughed again and returned to hacking.
“You’re sure?” Wright said.
Merrill nodded. “There is no reason to believe they went extinct. The fact that they survived until twelve thousand years ago means they had already adapted to survive the freezing and thawing of Antarctica. If that’s true, then they are here now, reclaiming this continent just as the trees have.”
Wright sighed. “Is that what attacked you back at the wall?”
“We never saw what attacked us,” Mirabelle said.
“There were footprints, though,” Merrill added, not wanting to be doubted again.
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