“Al-Iblis has the Ark” were his first words as Turcotte felt the heat from the tarmac rising like a hot blanket.
“And the Grail,” Turcotte added, squinting in the bright sun. “Do you know where he went?”
“Last radar image before the AWACS was destroyed indicated the two helicopters were heading east,” Sherev said as he led Turcotte toward the waiting bouncer. “For all we know the choppers had external fuel tanks, which means they could go anywhere in the Middle East. There they could land and cross-load to a plane if they wanted to go farther. One of our listening stations intercepted part of an FM broadcast between the two helicopters which indicated they were heading toward a place called The Mission, which no one seems to know the location of.”
Turcotte knew that intelligence agencies all over the world had been trying to find the new spot where The Mission had set up shop after being chased off of Devil’s Island in South America.
“Things are very unstable,” Sherev continued as they reached the bouncer. “The assassination of Hussein has led to saber rattling in both Iran and Iraq. The fools here thought cutting off the head would kill the beast, but it has just made things more dangerous. The enemy you know is always better than the enemy you don’t.
“Your own country is threatening Egypt over the loss of the AWACS. My country is contemplating mobilization of reserves because of what is happening.
“China is still sealed off from the rest of the world, although intelligence reports indicate their military is mobilizing. There’s fear that the Chinese might invade Taiwan. North Korea is also mobilizing. Both countries are hoping that your Navy in the Pacific is so preoccupied with Easter Island that they can act with impunity in the western Pacific.” Sherev shrugged his shoulders. “The world is getting even crazier than it usually is. And now we have the Ark of the Covenant and the Grail both surfacing after being myths for generations and now lie in the hands of a terrorist.
“I think that what is even more dangerous than the political maneuverings are the cracks in the foundations of the major religions. The various clergy are having a difficult time suddenly reconciling their dogma to the existence of these aliens.”
Turcotte didn’t want to get into the real identity of Al-Iblis with Sherev; he himself had a hard enough time understanding the creature and its ka and being reborn.
“I thank you for saving us.” He extended his hand.
Sherev gripped it. “I lost a good mole—” He nodded toward Fassid. “I hope you two were worth it.”
“We’ll try to be,” Turcotte said.
“Ah,” Sherev spit onto the hot runway. “Who knows what is worth what nowadays.” He slapped the side of the bouncer. “Alien spaceships, the Ark, the Grail, who knows what will happen next or who is who.”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out at Area 51,” Turcotte said. “Thank Fassid for me once more.”
“Ah, he gets a nice house, a monthly check from the government now. He is quite happy that he does not have to lead a double life. Have a safe journey.” Sherev stepped back.
Turcotte climbed up to the hatch and slid in, shutting it behind him. Within seconds they were airborne and heading west toward the United States.
Qian-Ling, China
Ts’ang used the spear he held to open one of the smaller containers in the large cavern. He removed a black sphere, about eight inches in diameter. Then he led Lexina, Coridan, and Elek back to the lowest chamber.
“I must follow the instructions I was given,” he said as they entered it and faced the black wall. “I was put in place to be the first to awaken. Artad is to be the last.”
“Who’s next?” Lexina asked.
“The Kortad. They must make sure all is secure before waking Artad.”
“There is not much time,” Lexina said.
“It is the way things must be done,” Ts’ang said. “Haste can be more dangerous than anything else.” He pressed down on the top of the black sphere. A series of hexagons appeared on the surface. He hit several in a rapid pattern.
The black wall moved swiftly back, revealing row after row of black tube. The chamber was far larger than Lexina had imagined. Over two hundred tubes were exposed before the black wall completely disappeared, revealing a large set of doors made of black metal.
“Artad rests behind those doors in a special vault,” Ts’ang said.
He tapped on the black sphere and the lids to all the tubes slid back. The metal foil peeled away, revealing the alien bodies inside. They were identical to the hologram that had appeared in the main tunnel. They were all just short of seven feet tall, with a disproportionally short torso and overly long arms and legs. The heads were half as big as a human’s, with bright red hair. The skin was white and unblemished.
Each one had either a spear like Ts’ang, or a sword lying next to their right hands. Lexina wondered about the archaic weapons, but she assumed they had another purpose just as the Spear of Destiny and Ts’ang’s spear had served as keys.
“They will be conscious and able to move in an hour,” Ts’ang said. “Until then, we wait.”
“We have waited for many generations,” Lexina said. “Another hour is bearable for us, but I hope it is not too late with regard to Aspasia’s Shadow’s forces.”
Easter Island
The thousands brought by the Jahre Viking had been assimilated by the nanovirus. Food on the relatively desolate island was a major problem at the moment, and the guardian solved that by “shutting down” a large number of the currently unneeded troops. The nanovirus put them into a coma, reducing their bodily functions to bare minimums.
The Viking floated offshore, its modifications complete. The massive bow doors slowly swung open, water flooding into the special front compartment built by the nano-techs. Once the water line inside equaled that outside, the submarine Springfield slowly made its way inside the huge tanker and was secured in metal brackets specifically designed for it. The doors swung shut, then the water was pumped out.
On board the Washington, the modified air wing was in place, and planes lined the deck, wingtip to wingtip.
All was ready. The huge tanker and the aircraft carrier began moving. From the deck of the Washington, a single, modified Hawkeye took off.
Pacific Ocean
Captain Robinette stared at the imagery that had just been downloaded from the KH-14 spy satellite monitoring his area of operations. Two large ships had just appeared from under the protection of the Easter Island shield: the George Washington and the Jahre Viking. They were moving at flank speed, directly for his Task Force.
Robinette sat down in his command chair and accessed the com-link to the captains of all the ships in his battle group. “Gentlemen. We have contact with the enemy. Prepare your ships for battle. We will advance on the enemy at flank speed. I am launching aircraft for a emptive strike.”
He shut the com-link, then turned to his Commander Air Group. “CAG, I want you to start launching immediately. Everything we’ve got.”
If there was one lesson that had been beaten into Robinette from his first year at the Naval Academy, it is that in modern naval warfare the side that struck first held the advantage.
“What about our CAP?” the CAG asked, referring to s covering air patrol that guarded the Task Force.
“Keep minimum force above us. Everything else gets launched. I want those two ships sunk.”
“Sink the Washington, sir?”
“Yes. I want you to lead the strike force personally.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as CAG left, one of the radar operators called out a report. “Sir, there’s been an aircraft launched from the Washington.”
“Identification?”
“A Hawkeye.”
That made sense, Robinette knew. The Hawkeye was a surveillance aircraft. “Keep an eye on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Mission
The body was ready. It had been grown with the utmost
care and now floated in a vat of green fluid, a black hose running air into the mouth. The top of the shaved head was covered with a skullcap from which several dozen wires ran to a main line that came out of the tube and snaked over to the command console.
The eyes were open but stared blankly, no spark of intelligence behind them. It was in one of the lowermost chambers of The Mission, surrounded by a bank of alien machinery, the most prominent piece a long black tube built of b’ja, the alien metal.
Aspasia’s Shadow coughed, pain shooting through lungs riddled with cancer. This was a very bad time to pass on. There was so much that needed to be done, and Duncan still lay in the room next to the Grail, twitching in agony.
But he didn’t want to cut it too close. If this body died, he would lose all he had experienced in the past several days and then even more time would be lost trying to catch up. It was a disorienting feeling, awakening in a new body and having lost time that one had in reality lived.
Aspasia’s Shadow went to the control console, hands over the lit hexagonal display. He tapped out a sequence, just as he had done hundreds of times in the past. The lid to the black tube swung up easily, revealing a contoured interior designed to fit his body.
He removed the ka from around his neck and slid it, arms forward, into the two small holes on the right side of the console. It fit snugly, and a small six-sided section next to it glowed orange, indicating it was in place.
Aspasia’s Shadow went to the black tube. He stripped off the priest’s garments and crown, carefully laying them on the small stand next to it, and lay inside. The lid lowered onto him, trapping him in utter darkness.
Nano-probes slid out of the lining into his brain, tapping into the needed sections. The pain was intense, but there wasn’t time to go through the normal preparations which would have alleviated that. His memories and experiences since the last download were quickly tapped and transferred to the ka. Aspasia’s Shadow took a shallow breath, never prepared for what came next, because he didn’t know what it was going to be like.
Out of small pockets in the lining of the tube, black particles, the size of grains of sand, were expelled onto his naked skin.
He screamed helplessly into the darkness of the tube as the particles dissolved his flesh, muscle, and bone from the outside inward, triggering every pain response the body had. The only positive aspect was that it lasted for barely five seconds before the body was gone.
The console hummed as the data in the ka was integrated with the basic profile of Aspasia, then shunted to the figure in the glass tube through the line, into the wires into its brain. The imprinting lasted over a minute.
The eyes blinked, awareness filling them with cunning and malice. The green fluid drained, leaving the figure kneeling in the tube’s floor, trying to get oriented. The tube slid up and the figure tentatively stepped out. It wiped itself with a towel, then slid on the garments that had been left.
Aspasia’s Shadow, the latest version, turned to leave the room, but paused. It went over to the black tube and lifted the lid. Inside there was nothing. A line furrowed the unmarked brow of the cloned body, as if struggling to remember something.
Aspasia’s Shadow felt the pressure of time and left the regeneration room.
He went deep in the base, to the lowermost room. A large multifaceted crystal, about four feet high, was in the center of the chamber. He walked up to it and laid his hand on the top, ring facing down.
The crystal glowed brightly from an inner light. In a complex maneuver that even Aspasia’s Shadow couldn’t follow, the outside of the crystal folded on itself in tiny portions along the top, revealing an opening. He reached in. His hand came out holding a sword.
The Pacific Ocean
CAG flew above and slightly behind the strike force. Spread out below was an impressive sight — twelve F-14s, twenty-four F-18s, an EA-2C Early Warning plane, and four EA-6B Prowler electronic attack jets leading the way. More than enough firepower to take out both ships. The issue, of course, was who was crewing the ships. CAG could hear the chatter on the inter-flight net as his pilots discussed this. He keyed his radio.
“Men. Listen up. You will press home against the Washington. I want no one backing off. You’ve seen the video showing what happened to those people on the rafts heading in toward Easter Island off that trawler. The SEAL team sent in to do a recon hasn’t been heard from. If our people are on board the Washington, they’re not our people anymore. Those ships are carrying a virus deadly to all of mankind. You will press home the attack.”
* * *
The Washington began launching more aircraft as the Hawkeye picked up the incoming flight. There was movement on the deck as some of those who had come on the Viking came onto the deck.
The Viking was slowing down and the bow doors slowly came open. The modified Springfield slipped out. But instead of heading toward Task Force 79, it took a different heading. Where the Springfield had been, the nanovirus began construction on a replica of the Springfield, which it had spent the last several hours studying.
* * *
“We’ve got bogeys,” the EA-2C reported. “How many?” CAG asked.
“Twenty-four.”
“Signature?”
“Looks like F-18, but—”
“But?”
“Something’s different.”
“What?”
“I don’t know, CAG. Just different.”
“Great.” CAG considered the situation. The bogies were most likely a defensive force sent up to stop the attack. “Checkmate Six,” he called for the leader of one of his flights of F-18s.
“Roger. This is Checkmate Six. Over.”
“CAG to Checkmate. You’ve got the bogies. Clear our way in. Over.”
“Roger.”
CAG watched as one of his squadrons of F-18s accelerated, firing their afterburners.
“Where’s that Hawkeye from the Washington?” CAG called back to the Stennis. “We have it west of your flight at high altitude, closing on our position,” the carrier reported.
A new voice cut in — Captain Robinette. “Concentrate on your attack, CAG. I’m sending one of the CAP F-18s to take out that Hawkeye.”
* * *
The pilot of the F-18 detailed to destroy the Hawkeye was flying with afterburners on toward the slower-moving plane headed directly toward the fleet. He wasn’t worried about the confrontation, since the Hawkeye was unarmed. He flipped the switch turning on his 20mm Gatling gun and slowed as he neared the other plane.
The Hawkeye made no attempt to maneuver, coming straight on. At one mile, closing rapidly, the pilot pressed the trigger and held it for two seconds before breaking right. As he passed he could see the tracers race toward the Hawkeye and hit. Chunks of the plane blew off as the 20mm rounds ripped through.
“What the hell?” the pilot muttered as he noticed the rotodome on top separate from the body of the plane and continue flying on its own as the plane nosed over and headed for the ocean. He turned hard, circling around. The rotodome was slowly disintegrating, changing from a solid into what appeared to be a black cloud that was spreading out.
The pilot keyed his radio, but there was nothing but static. He changed frequencies with the same result.
* * *
“We’ve lost all communications with Pearl.”
Robinette spun his chair around. “Say again?”
“We’ve lost all communications, sir. SATCOM. High frequency. Everything.”
Robinette turned back. There was a clear Plexiglas screen on one side. A sailor stood behind it, updating the position of the strike force and the enemy flight. The two were closing on each other at rapid speeds. A tremor of unease passed through the captain.
* * *
The leader of the forward F-18 squadron blinked as the incoming flight disappeared from his radar screen. “Anyone have a lock on bogeys? Over.”
“Negative. They’re gone. My radar is down!”
Without their rada
rs, the F-18s from the Stennis were forced to find their targets visually. This was difficult flying at twelve hundred miles an hour, especially when their targets were approaching head-on at the same speed.
“There!” the squadron commander yelled as he fired his 20mm cannon at a blur he spotted coming at him.
The bogeys were past, F-18s passing each other at a combined speed of over two thousand miles an hour. The startled commander of the Checkmates whipped his head left and right, barely catching a glimpse of the enemy aircraft. They weren’t up to intercept. The path to the Washington was clear for the strike force.
* * *
Robinette pounded the arm of his chair in frustration. He was blind and cut off from both his strike force and his protective CAP. He could only hope his men’s training held true and both did their jobs.
* * *
CAG had taken over lead of the flight. Without communication among the planes, it boiled down to a simple tactic — everyone was to follow him and do as he did. He spotted two massive silhouettes on the horizon and knew he had the targets in sight. He armed his bombs as he searched the sky for a protective air cover, but the sky seemed to be clear.
In their abbreviated mission briefing before takeoff, CAG had divided the two targets among his planes. He pointed his nose toward the Washington and was relieved to see the planes designated for the Jahre Viking break left and head toward their target. Without his aiming radar, and not having to worry about air cover, CAG decided the best plan was to come in low and slow and drop his bomb when he was right on top of the target. He would use the plastic sight bolted to the front of the cockpit reserved for when the radar didn’t work.
He extended flaps and reduced throttle. He could make out more details about the Washington as he got closer. Planes lined the deck. Some adjustments had been made to the ship, particularly in the radar array and bridge island. Then he saw the people. Hundreds covering the forward part of the flight deck. Men, women, and children. Most of the adults were dressed in Navy uniforms.
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