The Grail a5-5

by Robert Doherty

  “What’s wrong?” Mualama asked.

  “Men.” Che Lu shook her head again. “Always action first, thinking later. I suggest you translate the next chapter of Sir Burton’s manuscript.”

  “I’m sure Kazin was referring to Mount Sinai,” Mualama said defensively.

  “I agree with you,” Che Lu said. “But no one has stopped to think about what we just read. Why would this strange woman so easily tell Burton the location of The Mission, information that has been guarded so tightly for millennia? And the question above that — how did she know where it was? Obviously, Burton didn’t stop to think either over a hundred years ago. We need to find what the result of his lack of foresight was, or else history may well repeat itself.”

  “What are you really looking for?” Mualama demanded of her.

  Che Lu was surprised at the tone in his voice. “I want to uncover the truth so we may move forward.”

  “The truth?” A strange grin twisted Mualama’s face, as if forced from within. “You work for Artad, don’t you?”

  “I work for no one. I am like you, an archaeologist who is—”

  “Then why are you so anxious that mankind ally with Artad?” Mualama cut her off.

  “I just think it would be the wisest course,” Che Lu said.

  “They question me,” Mualama said, indicating the space around him, “but they don’t question you. Why did you go to Qian-Ling in the first place? How did you get authority to enter when no one has ever received such permission in thousands of years?” He leaned forward, causing the old woman to step back in fear. “I think you lie too, Professor.”

  Without another word, Mualama went back to the manuscript. As he turned, Che Lu noted once more a small spot of blood on his ear. She hurried from the conference room, leaving Mualama alone.

  CHAPTER 21

  The Mission

  Aspasia’s Shadow was as still as the columns of marble behind him. The sword was held in front of him with both hands, point on the floor. The gems on the garments glittered. His dark eyes had not moved for the past ten minutes, focused on Lisa Duncan’s form. She had also stopped moving, the slight rise and fall of her chest the only sign she was still alive. Her face had even relaxed, no longer contorted in pain as it had been since she put her hand in the Grail.

  He’d known it would take time, but that was a resource that was in short supply. He was receiving continuous inquiries from the Airlia left on Mars via the guardian computer. That was of little consequence to him, although The Mission guardian did indicate that the Mars guardian was doing something on the red planet, the exact nature of which was being shielded. With no talons or mothership available to them, Aspasia’s Shadow wasn’t overly concerned with the Mars Airlia. The situation had changed, and they would either serve him or be abandoned as he had been abandoned by them.

  China was a problem, as it had been for millennia. The shield was up around Qian-Ling, and Aspasia’s Shadow had to assume that The Ones Who Wait would be resurrecting Artad. He felt a slight chill of anticipation, something that had been lacking for a long time. He wanted to face down the Kortad Leader and end this once and for all time. He’d fought Artad’s Shadow many times, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, but always returning to the truce. Now there could be a final battle with the real Artad.

  More important than all that, though, was the Grail. So he waited and watched Duncan.

  Hazerim Air Base, Israel

  “We have eight Cobras already in the air, escorting five Blackhawks carrying an assault force.” Sherev used the tip of a pencil to point at the map. “They’re here, flying low level over the Gulf of Aqaba.”

  “There’s an AC-130 gunship en route from Kuwait,” Turcotte said. Cobras were attack helicopters armed with a 20mm machine gun and either Hellfire or TOW missiles, flown by a two-man crew. Its firepower, added to that of the AC-130 Specter airplane, would give them some punch.

  “We’ve picked up your plane on radar,” Sherev said. “We estimate it should arrive at Mount Sinai just as my aircraft do.”

  “How many men on the Blackhawks?” Turcotte was checking the TASC-suit. Sherev had raced out to meet them in an old jeep as soon as they landed. “Fifty. From Unit 269.”

  Turcotte knew of 269 from his time in Det-A in Berlin. It was the most elite unit in the Israeli Army, which was saying quite a bit. That meant Sherev was using the very tip of the spear that was the Israeli Army for this mission. Judging the distance to where the choppers were and Mount Sinai, Turcotte knew they had a little bit of time before they had to leave in order to catch up to the aircraft in the bouncer.

  “And intelligence on Mount Sinai?” Yakov asked. The Russian had finally shed his bulky overcoat; the dry, warm air of the Israeli desert was causing all of them to sweat. The vest Turcotte had scrounged for Yakov was stretched tight across his massive chest. The MP-5 in his hands looked like a toy.

  “It’s in the middle of nowhere on the way to nowhere,” Sherev said. The pencil moved west and south from the location of the helicopters to the center of the lower portion of the Sinai Peninsula. “I have seen the Mount with my own eyes during the ’73 war. We took the Sinai Peninsula from the Egyptians. And we gave it back after the peace accords. But both sides steered clear of Jabal Mosa, which is what the locals call it.

  “Superstition.” Sherev shrugged. “But in reality it is of no strategic or even tactical value. I happened to see it on a long-range recon trying to flank the Egyptian forces. It’s not even the tallest peak in the area — Mount Catherine to the southwest is a little higher. Mount Sinai is just about seventy-five hundred feet high.

  “There’s a Catholic monastery at the base of the mountain. It’s been there since the sixth century — the Monastery of Saint Catherine, founded by the Emperor Justinian.”

  “We know The Mission used the Romans in this area,” Turcotte said as he opened the two halves of the suit. “Maybe they put a monastery at the base to distract attention from the mountain. Or maybe it’s part of The Mission.”

  “It’s possible,” Sherev granted. “But I have imagery taken from overflights, and they show nothing on the mountain.” He tossed several photos onto the hood of the jeep. They showed rough terrain, a peak in the center, another in the lower left which Sherev tapped with the pencil point. “That’s Mount Catherine. Nothing there either. The only way to get to Mount Sinai on the ground is by using an unimproved road from the coast. Very hard to get to.”

  “The Airlia had a penchant for hiding things underground,” Turcotte noted. Sherev nodded. “A good place to hide something, as we do at Dimona. You know, Sinai comes from the name of the ancient god that was worshipped by the first people in that area, the moon god, Sin. Some Bedouins worship the Mount, most fear it. How do we find an underground base that no one has ever found?”

  “I think someone did find it,” Turcotte said.

  “What is that?” Sherev asked as the suit split into two parts, waiting for an occupant.

  “A second chance to rescue Doctor Duncan and destroy The Mission,” Turcotte said. He lay down inside and hit the command for the suit to close. The top rotated over and shut.

  “Audio,” Turcotte ordered. He caught the end of Sherev’s question. “—are you doing?”

  Turcotte stood, feeling more comfortable in the suit than he had the first time. He lifted an arm toward the bouncer. “Let’s get airborne and I’ll get us more information.”

  Area 51

  Che Lu slowly opened the door to the conference room and peered in. The lights were dimmer and Mualama was a tall, dark form seated near the computer. He wasn’t moving and there was no sound of the keys being struck.

  “You were right.”

  The voice startled Che Lu. “About what?” she asked Mualama.

  “Burton didn’t stop to think either before he raced off into the desert, seeking out what Kazin hinted at.”

  “Show me,” Che Lu said as she turned to the large screen.

&nbs
p; BURTON MANUSCRIPT: CHAPTER 9

  I traveled with little difficulty from Damascus to Jerusalem. Then I joined a caravan that went south along the shore of the Dead Sea. We went along wadis until we reached Aqaba on the Gulf that bears the same name. That was the convoy’s end point. I was told there was nothing worthwhile to the south in either direction — in the Sinai to the west or Arabia to the east.

  However, I had little difficulty enlisting the aid of some Bedouins — the only ones who could travel or live in that stark terrain — to lead me into the heart of the Sinai.

  Outside the walls of Aqaba I found a small group of twenty Bedouins preparing to depart for the desert. They had traveled to the city to trade for the few items their homeland could not provide them, primarily ammunition for their weapons. They were fierce-looking men armed with guns and swords, well-mounted. I felt at home among them. I had met such men before on my travels — men who lived simply, with strict codes of conduct so they could survive in a brutal land.

  As I had done before, I did not tell them of my ultimate goal, but rather simply that I wished to travel to the monastery that was located at the base of the holy mountain. Indeed, I did plan on visiting Saint Catherine’s Monastery, as it seemed to me the brothers there would know something of the mountain in whose shadow they dwelled.

  The Bedouins took me in, shared their food and tents, and in the morning we departed. Instead of following the coast, as I had done so many times on my treks in Africa, the Bedouins went inland immediately upon leaving the outskirts of Aqaba. They knew their way from watering hole to watering hole, and it most certainly did not make for a direct route. Time meant nothing to these people, only desert and water mattered while they were traveling.

  It was a feat I found most amazing, considering the tribe that they sought to reunite with were always on the move and could be anywhere in the vast, broken land we traversed.

  But the old man who led us, Taiyaba, seemed unconcerned. He would find his tribe and family, of that he had no doubt. If it was close to Mount Catherine, then he would get me there. If not, he would just shrug and say it was Allah’s will that I not go there.

  After two weeks, a short time compared to Moses’ forty years, I saw the top of two peaks in the western distance. Two days later we arrived at the monastery. The men were anxious. Mount Sinai, or Jabal Mosa, as they called it, was a holy place, one to be feared. They were also anxious to get to their families, which Taiyaba assured them were not far away, to the north and west. How he knew that, I could not tell you.

  The building was made of rock and brick, huddled against a high rock wall at the base of Mount Sinai. I was disappointed in the monks. A small group of men, hacking a miserly life out of their rocky home, they were ignorant of anything unusual about Mount Sinai. They even debated among themselves whether Moses had gone up that mountain or Mount Catherine.

  They were worthless. And they were puppets. I should have seen it in their eyes. As I should have seen it in Kazin’s beautiful eyes. But I was too anxious. Mount Sinai was right there, beckoning, and I was not paying as close attention as I should have.

  Taiyaba offered to go with me up the mountain.

  We set out at dawn. There was a track that wound through the boulders and crags. A single track almost impassable at times.

  Two-thirds of the way up we crossed over a spur and came to a halt. In front of us the way was blocked by a dozen men dressed in long black robes, holding long spears. The bright metal glistened in the desert sun. Beyond the warriors, another figure loomed, standing on top of a boulder. I had seen someone like that before, and my heart raced with fear and anticipation of the coming confrontation.

  “Welcome, Mister Burton.” The voice confirmed the identity, sending a shiver up my spine. Al-Iblis. He came close. “You will now tell me what you should have long ago.”

  “I don’t—” I began, but he cut me off, leaning close so only I could hear. “I want the location of the Grail. And if it is back in the Hall as I suspect, I want to know where the key for the Hall is. And I assure you, you will tell me everything you know.” He gestured at his men.

  One of the warriors stepped forward and tossed a purse to Taiyaba.

  “You can leave now,” Al-Iblis ordered the Bedouin. “You have been well paid for your guide duties.”

  “What will you do with him?” Taiyaba asked. “That is not your concern.”

  Taiyaba’s hand drifted to the pommel of his scimitar. “He has shared my food and my tent.”

  “You people of the desert.” Al-Iblis spit. “I don’t care for your customs. This is my place, not yours. I was here before your people were kicked out of whatever land they lived in and forced into the desert. He is mine to do with what I will. You have been paid. Go.”

  “You lied to me,” Taiyaba said. “You said you only wished to speak to him and that I would guide him back to Aqaba safely.” He turned back the way he had come. “It is said among my people that lies come back tenfold to the source.” He ignored me as he went down the trail and disappeared.

  I licked my parched lips, feeling the heat of the sun beating down on me. “Kazin?” I asked. “She is one of you, isn’t she?”

  His lips pressed together, razor thin in what might have been a smile. “Irresistible, wasn’t she? I knew you would fall for her. She is a Shadow, like me. We have had many incarnations over the years. Isis and Osiris. Mordred and Morgana.”

  “And The Mission has been here all these years,” I said.

  “No. This is one of many places it has drifted to and from,” Al-Iblis said. “For now it is convenient. As it was in the past and will be again in the future. Take him,” Al-Iblis ordered.

  Two of the warriors grabbed my arms and dragged me along the track. We went about a quarter mile farther to a point where a tall rock, over eighty feet high at least, jutted out of the side of the mountain like the prow of a magnificent ship. Al-Iblis waited for us at the base of this spur. He had a ring, similar to that worn by The Watchers, and he used it in the exact middle of the rock base. An entranceway, ten feet high by eight wide, appeared.

  I knew if I went into that tunnel I would never come out. But what could I do? The warriors had my arms tight in their grip. Al-Iblis stepped into the doorway and was gone, as if disappearing into the gates of Hell itself.

  The warriors thrust me forward toward the doorway. The one on my right cried out and spun to the ground, blood spurting from a wound in the neck. The crack of a gunshot followed a split second later. I dove to the ground, rolling left. More shots echoed on top of the first, faster than one man could reload.

  I grabbed the dead warrior’s spear just in time as another came at me. I spit him on the blade like a fish, the metal punching completely through him.

  I scrambled to my feet as the war cries of the Bedouins split the air. Taiyaba came charging up the trail, followed by half a dozen of his men. The rest fired from on the rocks.

  The warriors fell quickly before the sudden onslaught of the mighty warriors of the desert.

  “Come!” Taiyaba beckoned.

  I wasted no time, dashing down the trail and joining him. Above us the sky suddenly darkened, clouds swirled over the top of the mountain. Thunder roared. Lightning streaked the sky. All within less than a minute of the rescue, on a day when there had not been a cloud in the sky. Several of the Bedouin cried out in fear, but Taiyaba hushed them with a curse as we continued down the path.

  “He was our guest!” Taiyaba explained succinctly.

  I was knocked backward as a lightning bolt hit one of the Bedouins in front of me. When I struggled to my feet there was only a black spot to mark where he had been.

  Taiyaba fired his rifle at the sky with another eloquent curse in Arabic, and we continued.

  Another lightning bolt, another man dead. By the time we reached the bottom only I, Taiyaba, and two others remained.

  We mounted and rode into the desert, leaving the storm behind as it did not seem to be ab
le to move away from the top of the Mount.

  I have never been able to figure out why I was spared, but from that day forward the shock that had shaken my core when I saw the Black Sphinx was softened by the thought that there was some power stronger than these strange creatures from the sky and their minions. A power that protected me that day on the mountain.

  I have learned many strange things over the years, but that day reignited my faith. Not in life after death, or the various religions I have encountered, or of gods I have heard of, but in man himself. Taiyaba came back for me because of his beliefs. His men died to save me because of what they believed in. I learned that day that a man’s belief is a very powerful thing.

  Tears were running down Che Lu’s cheeks. She was remembering her students in Tiananmen Square, dying for their beliefs. Those she had walked with in the Long March and watched die as they gave their food to others.

  The SATPhone in the middle of the desk cut through her sobs with a sharp ring.

  Professor Mualama reached over Che Lu’s shoulder and hit the on button. “This is Turcotte. Do you have the location of The Mission?”

  “We have more than that — we have the location of the entrance.”

  Airspace Gulf Of Aqaba

  Turcotte read the words of Burton on the helmet screen as the bouncer skimmed above the light blue water. Yakov and Sherev were reading the same on a laptop.

  “We have the entrance,” Turcotte said as he reached the end of the chapter. He began to check suit systems.

  “I’ll relay the information to my men,” Sherev said.

  Area 51

  Major Quinn had not been to sleep for over eighty hours, and his hand shook as he downed another cup of coffee. He was in the back of the Cube, watching the various developments play out around the world as they were displayed on the master board in the front of the room. Piles of documents, generated and brought into the Cube, and that were no longer being processed due to personnel shortages, littered both sides of his chair.