The Biofab War

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Greg nodded. "I see your point."

  "Any thoughts on the doorway?" asked McShane.

  "A million." Farnesworth grinned. "All culled from Saturday sci-fi reruns. I do have an observation, though. Even under a magnifying glass, there's no visible separation between rock and door. They seem melded together—maybe on a sub-molecular level."

  Bob cleared his throat. "I see. Well, that does steal some of my thunder."

  "We interrupted you," said John. "I'm sorry. You were saying about the fragment?"

  "I was saying that the fragment is in a language whose peoples were dust five thousand years before the Celts of Europe. There are lucid arguments for the existence of ancient trading routes to the New World from the classical—Egypt, Tarshish, Carthage. Dead Mediterranean languages have been found carved into rocks throughout North America, especially New England. But this is the first evidence that allegedly unrelated, loose trading confederations not only were established on these shores, but overlapped, interacting with each other down through time. To believe that two people so far separated in time and origin as the Celts and the Egyptians occupied the same concealed site—concealed, mind you!—fifty centuries apart through coincidence... well, I can't accept it. The little green light and its wondrous door only fuel my skepticism."

  Machine-gun fire echoed thinly through the temple.

  "Zfhava!" cried John, leading the rush for the stairs.

  Chapter 5

  The Israeli had been settled behind some boulders no more than ten minutes when movement in the undergrowth below snapped her to the alert.

  A score of Institute security guards, carrying M-16s, were winding their way up the trail toward her, led by Fred Lang-ston. When they were out of the brush, about forty yards away, she shouted, "Halt!" and fired a warning burst.

  All but Langston dived for cover. "Hold your fire!" he shouted. "Harrison, is that you?"

  "His associate," Zahava called back.

  "I'm unarmed and coming up alone." Which he did, topping the rough trail quickly, without visible exertion.

  "Where's Harrison," he demanded, ignoring the Uzi's muzzle leveled at his belly.

  "Here." John appeared from behind the boulders.

  "How ya doin', Freddy?"

  "Fames worth!"

  Langston turned angrily to John. "Harrison, this area's strictly off limits. We're doing some very delicate work up here. No trespassers."

  "I thought I had carte blanche, Langston."

  "Certainly, as relates to Argonaut and the murder. But this is totally unrelated. I insist you leave now."

  "And if we don't?"

  "I'll be forced to expel you." He emphasized "expel."

  "How did you find us, Dr. Langston?" Bob asked, surveying the guards deploying along the hillside. "Just happen to be out grouse hunting with this little task force and stumble over us?"

  "We have an excellent security system."

  "One more appropriate to the Manhattan Project," said John. "Once I make a few phone calls, Langston, expect a visit in force from the FBI. I'd like to hear you explaining your need for automatic weapons."

  "You have three minutes to be on your way." Turning, he started back down the trail.

  "Hey, Freddy, I found it," Greg said, leaning insouciantly against a boulder. Langston froze for an instant, then resumed walking, seeming not to have heard.

  "Take cover," John said. "It's their move." He joined Zahava behind the rocks, pistol drawn.

  The guards had used the*time to find better positions. Reaching them, the Director barked an order, diving for cover.

  A hail of M-16 slugs ricocheted off the rocks. The barrage was so intense that John and Zahava couldn't return the fire. It was only a matter of moments until a bullet would find one of the four.

  Turning to gauge a possible retreat over the hilltop, John saw two black-uniformed figures low-crawling along the crest. Sighting carefully, he snapped off five quick shots.

  One man rolled backward, out of sight, his short, blunt weapon clattering down the hill. The other beat a hasty retreat.

  "Cover me!" Greg shouted above the din. As John and Zahava drew the guards' fire, the geologist scampered out onto the trail and back again, clutching his prize: the fallen man's weapon.

  "M-Seventy-Nine grenade launcher," he panted, breaking open the breach. "Haven't seen one of these since 'Nam." He snapped the weapon shut.

  "We can't stay here and we can't retreat," said John, reloading his pistol. "Can you use that?"

  "I can put one right in their laps."

  "Bob, when you hear the detonation, you and Greg run for the passageway. Zahava and I'll cover."

  McShane nodded curtly.

  "Now!"

  Sighting carefully, Greg fired. The grenade exploded between two of Langston's men, hurling them into the scrub. John and Zahava emptied their magazines into the guard force. Weak, ineffectual fire responded.

  "Let's get out of here!" They ran after the others.

  "Where's Bob?" John asked Greg, waiting for them inside the open entrance.

  "In the altar chamber. Wait a sec, I'll close this." He shined his light at a point inside the doorway parallel to the sensing device on the outside. The rock swung silently shut. Descending to the altar chamber, they found Bob busily examining the altar.

  "Think they'll follow?" asked Zahava.

  "No. Langston obviously knows what's here and how to get in. And he knows we'd slaughter his men in that narrow passageway."

  "Now what?" Greg asked as he and John sat on a bench, sharing a canteen. "You're the specialist."

  John shrugged. "If we wait, maybe they'll go away. Unless you've a better suggestion."

  "Inspiring."

  "Come, come, Greg," said Bob, looking up from the pedestal. "We're doing very well. In one day we've uncovered the villain, made archaeological history and stood off a band of desperados. Now all we have to do is get out alive."

  "You can continue your briefing now, Bob," John said. "We're not pressed for time."

  "My pleasure." He sat atop the altar, legs crossed, stick by his side. "Let me recap for Zahava what happened while she was topside." Which he did, continuing in his best seminar manner, "So finding this site creates more mysteries than it solves. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of pre-Columbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar.

  "The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. Caesar himself says so in the third book of his De Bella Gallico, the Gallic Commentaries.

  "Trade between this continent and Europe, we may speculate, effectively ended with the rise of Roman might. The colonists were then absorbed by the 'natives,' themselves the children of previous colonies, their heritage long forgotten. From these peoples came the various Amerindian tribes.

  "That, at least, is how archaeology, once it confronts this find, will explain it. What it will not, cannot, explain is the concealment of this site by a sophisticated technology—one possibly in advance of our own and evidently dating from the site's construction.

  "Equally bizarre is the seemingly successive sharing of this site by the diverse peoples who touched these shores. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries.

  "Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep this a secret? I'm sure it has nothing to do with his career goals."

  "Aren't you leaping rather quickly to conclusions, Professor?" asked Greg.

  "What's your alternative? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?"

  Greg nodded.

  Bob smiled, shaking his head. "By whom—to what end? Every effort's been made to conceal this place, not to foist it on the academic community. Also, and this is intan
gible, it feels old."

  He was right. They all felt it, an aura of antiquity pervading the altar, the stone tiers, the tunnel and stairs worn smooth by feet eons dust.

  "'The dark and backward abysm of time,'" John quoted softly.

  The heavy thud of explosions rocked their sanctuary, sending them diving to the hard floor amidst a shower of falling rock.

  "They're blowing their way in!" Greg shouted as the din continued.

  "No." John picked himself up as quiet returned. "I think they've sealed us in."

  A quick trip up to the entrance proved him right. There was ito winking green light. The door wouldn't budge under their combined efforts.

  "Clever," said Zahava. "Letting our thirst kill us."

  Somber, they rejoined Bob. Seemingly undeterred by the prospect of a lingering death, he was still exploring the altar by the fading beam of his light.

  "There's got to be another way out," said John, shining his own light along the chamber walls.

  "No, there doesn't," said Bob. "But in fact, there is. Voild!" He rose from his knees before the altar as the massive capstone swung soundlessly aside. A ladder of gleaming alloy, fastened to the side of the altar well, plunged into the dark beyond the range of their lights.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," Bob mumbled, lowering himself gingerly onto the top rung. "What are you waiting for?" he growled as they hesitated. "We'll be as dead as this place is if we don't find another exit."

  One after another, they followed him down into the blackness.

  Chapter 6

  "And so?" demanded Sutherland, his voice tinny in the pay phone receiver.

  "Down the ladder, into a tunnel like the first one," John said. Greg, Zahava and Bob sat behind him in the small diner, sipping coffee. "The tunnel was indirectly lit, power source unknown.

  "Past a locked door—same alloy as the ladder—about a half mile farther. Another quarter mile and we came to a light-activated entrance like the one Langston's crew sealed. We found ourselves on the weather side of Goose Hill, just above the breakwater. Bob marked the spot with his walking stick.

  "We followed the beach several miles to South Duns-more—a delight on a cold night with the tide running high. We're now feasting on greaseburgers in the aptly named Clam Shack."

  "Langston thinks you're still down there?"

  "Evidently."

  "Incredible." Sutherland paused, collecting his thoughts. "I'm coming down with a team tomorrow morning. I'll have FBI Liaison with me and a pocketful of John Doe warrants. Meet me at Otis Air Force Base at oh-six-hundred. Lay low till then."

  John returned to the others and a now cold cheeseburger. "He's coming down first thing tomorrow," he said to the expectant faces. "We're to meet him at Otis."

  "I'd like to get a good look at that site before then," Bob said between mouthfuls of blueberry pie. "Once the Outfit's house staff gets in there, all data will be tucked away in secret archives for centuries."

  "We could walk back down the beach," suggested Greg.

  "I'd like to try to open that locked door," Zahava said.

  "I second that." John rose, throwing a few bills on the table. "I don't relish facing the cold wind and spray, though," he admitted, sliding from the booth.

  "Salubrious—builds character," said McShane, gulping down his coffee. With a pleasant "Thank you" to the waitress, he followed his friends into the chill night.

  * * * *

  Taking a chance that Tuckman was still in, Sutherland dialed his office. Despite the hour, the Director was there, answering his own phone. Bill quickly sketched the day's events at Goose Hill, concluding, "I'd like to take a team down there tomorrow morning, sir. It would include FBI CIC Liaison, so we'd be on firm legal ground."

  "Do that, Bill," said Tuckman. "But make sure that any arrests are made by the Bureau. I'm due before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence next month." It was budget time. "If this excursion comes back to haunt us, we may both be counting yaks in the Himalayas as grade nothings. Clear?"

  "Perfectly."

  "Good luck. Call me from the Cape."

  Ringing the duty watch, Sutherland had calls put out for his team with instructions to meet him at Andrews Air Force Base by midnight. He then called Emmy-chan, his Eurasian friend, if "friend" is the word for someone you've lived with for twelve years.

  She took it with a stoicism born of necessity and sustained by love, telling him, as always, "Come back to me." As always, he said he would. Going out to his car, he headed for the Beltway and Andrews.

  "The more I see of this tunnel, the more it puzzles me." Bob's voice echoed down the passageway. They were approaching the door they'd passed during their escape. A diffuse golden glow bathed the corridor.

  "The lights seem to come on whenever anyone enters," said John.

  "Then there's a functioning power source," Zahava said. "But how could any piece of equipment operate through all the centuries this place's been abandoned?"

  "Note the walls," said McShane, running his hand along the surface. "Rock, but with the texture of glass. Not a chisel mark, no sign of power tools. Far better than anything our technology's capable of."

  "Someday we'll replicate this, Bob." Greg spoke for the first time since they'd left the beach. "When we finally translate particle beam theory into hardware. This is star wars stuff—applied atomics." Gone was the laid-back, mint-julep-and-magnolia accent.

  They stood before the door, an oval slab of metal flush with the wall. Greg flashed his light expectantly at the usual place. Nothing happened. "Any ideas?" he asked, flicking the torch off.

  "There is something here, I think," said John. "May I?" Canting the beam, barely grazing the space just above the door, he brought out the hieroglyphics, invisible in the corridor light. "Can you read that, Bob?"

  "Yes, but I don't see how it helps. It says, Tell who you are and why you come.'"

  They stood mute for a moment, then John snapped his fingers. "Tolkien!"

  Loudly, he said, "John Harrison and a party of three. We're exploring this installation, which we believe abandoned."

  " 'Speak "friend" and enter,'" Greg recalled softly as the door disappeared. A refined contralto voice filled the corridor.

  "Please come in."

  Hesitantly, John leading, they stepped down into a high-ceilinged room no larger than the altar chamber. Silently, the door closed behind them.

  Several compact consoles occupied the half of the room nearest the door. Their control panels flickered into life.

  "Please proceed to the empty area fronting the equipment," directed the voice.

  "Who are you?" Zahava demanded, unslinging the Uzi. She spat an Arabic curse as the gun vanished.

  A high-pitched whine filled the room, rising quickly to mind-searing intensity. Futilely clapping their hands over then-ears, they dropped to the floor, writhing in agony, eyes bulging, screaming unheard into the merciless pitch.

  Abruptly, the killing noise stopped.

  "When you have recovered," the voice kept repeating, "please proceed to the area in front of the equipment." Helping each other, they stumbled forward, obeying.

  "Thank you."

  * * * *

  They were gone. The room was empty.

  Soon all the lights dimmed out, and the centuries resumed their slow, silent passage.

  * * * *

  Boarding the sleek little corporate jet, Sutherland exchanged nods with his three team members. Marsh and Johnson were CIA; Tim Flannigan, nose buried in a sports magazine, was FBI Liaison, the only one with arrest authority.

  Heading forward to brief the pilot, Sutherland spotted an unfamiliar man sitting away from the others. Something about the man tugged at his memory; thin, almost ascetic features, high forehead, thinning blond hair. Looks like a Jesuit, he thought.

  As he approached, the stranger glanced up, recognition in his cool gray eyes. A hand fell on Bill's shoulder, and he turned away from those eyes.

  "Tuckman!" No mi
staking the elegant features and silver hair.

  "None other," the Director said with a smile.

  "What are you doing here, sir?" Sutherland asked, sensing deviousness on a large scale.

  "All in good time, Bill. Let me introduce our guest."

  The stranger rose, stepping into the aisle. "Deputy Director Bill Sutherland, may I present Colonel Andreyev Ivanovich Bakunin—Andre—of the Second Chief Directorate of the—"

  "KGB," said Sutherland coldly. "The man responsible for the destruction of our network within Solidarity and the deaths of ten good—''

  "Traitors," the Russian interrupted evenly. "Ten good traitors, Mr. Sutherland. They sold the revolution, the revolution repaid them. To each according to his worth." His accent was cosmopolitan.

  "Sir," Sutherland said angrily, turning to Tuckman, "I protest the presence of a Soviet officer—"

  "Enough, both of you." The Director reached past Bakunin, picking up a handset. "Jensen," he said to the pilot, "let's roll. Call me when we're ten minutes from Otis.

  "Strap in, gentlemen," he ordered as the jets whined higher. "I'll hold mission briefing when we're airborne."

  A few minutes later, when all were seated around the conference pit to the plane's rear, sipping coffee, Tuckman began, glancing occasionally at his notes. "In 1944, on the south coast of France, a German raiding party swept into a cave. They believed the cave to be a Resistance staging area. Too late, they discovered their mistake."

  "Something unpleasant happen to them, sir?" asked Yazanaga, the team's technical specialist.

  "Wiped out. By particle beam weapons." He said it casually, taking a croissant from the coffee table.

  "Sir," said Marsh into the uneasy silence, "particle beams were science fiction back then—mostly still are." He glanced uneasily at the expressionless Russian. An analyst of Soviet military technology, Frank Marsh knew of the long-term Russian research in laser and particle beams.

  "Colonel Bakunin," said Tuckman, deferring to the Russian.