It was a Boeing 747, but the most bizarre 747 you would ever see.
Once upon a time, it had been a cargo plane of some sort, with a rear loading ramp and no side windows.
Now, it was painted entirely in black, dull black, and it bristled with irregular protrusions that had been added to it: radar domes, missile pods, and most irregularly of all: revolving gun turrets.
There were four of them—one on its domed roof, one on its underbelly, and two nestled on its flanks, where the plane's wings met its fuselage—each turret armed with a fearsome six-barrelled Gatling minigun.
It was the Halicarnassus. West's very own plane.
With a colossal roar, the great black jumbo jet swooped downwards, angling for the tiny road that bordered the swamp.
Now with all eight of his people on one swamprunner, West needed help and the Halicarnassus was about to provide it.
Two missiles lanced out from its belly-pods, missing one Apache by inches, but hitting the one behind it.
Boom. Fireball.
Then the great plane's underside minigun blazed to life, sending a thousand tracer rounds sizzling through the air all around the
third Apache, giving it the choice of either bugging out or dying. It bugged out.
West's lone swamprunner swept alongside the straight roadway, raced parallel to it. The road was elevated a couple of feet above the water, up a low gently-sloping bank.
At the same moment, above and behind West's boat, the big 747 landed on the little country road!
Its wheels hit the road, squealing briefly before rolling forwards with its outer tyres half off the road's edges. The big jet then taxied down the roadway—coming alongside West's skimming swamprunner, its wings stretching out over the waters of the swamp.
The Halicarnassus was coasting, rolling.
West's boat was speeding as fast as it could to keep up.
Then with a bang, the loading ramp at the back of the 747 dropped open, slammed down against the roadway behind the speeding plane.
A second later, a long cable bearing a large hook at its end came snaking out of the now-open cargo hold. It was a retrieval cable, normally used to snag weather balloons.
'What are you going to do now, my friend!' Pooh Bear yelled to West above the wind.
'This!'
As West spoke, he jammed his steering levers hard left, and the swamprunner swept leftward, bouncing up the riverbank and out of the water, dry-sliding on its flat-bottomed hull onto the bitumen road close behind the rolling 747!
It was an incredible sight: a big black 747 rolling along a country road, with a boat skidding and sliding along the road right behind it.
West saw the loading ramp of the plane, very close now, just a few yards in front of his sliding boat. He also saw the slithering retrieval cable bumping and bouncing on the road right in front of him.
'Stretch! The cable! Snag it!'
At the bow of the dry-sliding swamprunner, Stretch used a long
snagging pole to reach out and snag the retrieval cable's hook. He
got it.
'Hook us up!' West yelled.
Stretch did so, latching the cable's hook around the boat's bow.
And suddenly—whapl—the swamprunner was yanked forwards, pulled along by the giant 747!
Dragged now by the Halicarnassus, the swamprunner looked like a waterskier being pulled by a speedboat.
West yelled into his radio, 'Sky Monster! Reel us in!'
Sky Monster initiated the plane's internal cable spooler, and now the swamprunner began to move gradually forwards, hauled in by the cable, pulled closer and closer to the loading ramp.
While this was going on, the 747's belly-mounted gun turret continued to swing left and right, raining hell on Kallis's pursuing swampboats and the two remaining Apaches, keeping them at bay.
At last, West's swamprunner came to the loading ramp. West and Pooh Bear grabbed the ramp's struts, held the boat steady.
'Okay, everyone! All aboard!' West yelled.
One after the other, his team leapt from the swamprunner onto the lowered loading ramp—Wizard with Lily, then Zoe helping Fuzzy, Stretch helping Big Ears, and finally Pooh Bear and West
himself.
Once West had landed on the loading ramp, he unhooked the swamprunner and the boat fell away behind the speeding 747, tumbling end over end down the little black road.
Then the loading ramp lifted and closed, and the 747 powered up and pulled away from the American Apaches-and swampboats. It hit take-off speed and rose smoothly into the air.
Safe.
Clear.
Away.
The Halicarnassus flew south over the vast Ethiopian highlands.
While the others collapsed in the plane's large main cabin, West went straight up to the cockpit where he found the plane's pilot: a great big hairy-bearded New Zealand Air Force pilot known as Sky Monster. Unlike the others in the group, this had actually been his call-sign before he'd joined the team.
West gazed out at the landscape receding into the distance behind them—the swamp, the mountain, the vast plains beyond it—and thought about del Piero's Europeans engaging the superior American force. Del Piero would have little luck.
The Americans, as always the last to arrive but the greatest in brute force, had allowed West and the Europeans to squabble over the Piece, to lose men finding it, and then, like opportunistic lions, they'd muscled in on the hyenas and taken the prize.
And as the Halicarnassus soared into the sky away from the danger, West gazed at the large American force now gathered at the western edge of the swamp.
A disquieting thought lingered in his mind.
How had the Americans even known about this place?
The Europeans very probably had a copy of the Callimachus Text and, of course, they had the boy. But the Americans, so far as West knew, had neither.
Which meant there was no way they could have known that this was the resting place of the Colossus of Rhodes.
West frowned.
Was his team's cover blown? Had the Americans discovered their base and followed them here? Or worse: was there a traitor in his
team who had given their position away with a tracing beacon?
In any case, Judah now knew that West was involved in this treasure hunt. He might not know exactly who West was working for, but he knew West was involved.
Which meant that things were about to get very intense.
Safe at last, but without their prize, West's plane sped away to the south, disappearing over the mountains.
Exhausted and dirty, West trudged back down into the main cabin. Head down in thought, he almost walked straight past Lily, curled up in the darkness under the stairs, sobbing quietly.
West crouched down beside her and with a gentleness that defied his battered state, brushed away her tears. 'Hey, kiddo.'
'They . . . they just killed him,' she swallowed. 'Killed Noddy.'
'I know.'
'Why'd they have to do that? He never hurt any of them.'
'No, he didn't,' West said. 'But what we're doing here has made some big countries very angry—because they're afraid of losing their power. That's why they killed Noddy.' He tousled her hair as he stood to go. 'Hey. I'll miss him, too.'
Tired, sore and himself saddened by the loss of Noddy, West retired to his small bunkroom in the aft section of the plane.
He collapsed into his bunk and no sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was asleep.
He slept deeply, his dreams filled with vivid visions—of booby-trapped chambers, stone altars, chants and screams, waterfalls of lava, and of himself running frantically through it all.
The interesting thing was, these dreams weren't the product of West's imagination.
They had actually happened, ten years previously . . .
INSIDE THE KANYAMAIMAGA VOLCANO
UGANDA, AFRICA
20 MARCH, 1996, 11:47 A.M.
The images of West's d
reams:
West running desperately down an ancient stone passageway with Wizard at his side, toward the sounds of booming drums, chanting and a woman's terrified screams.
It's hot.
Hot as Hell.
And since it's inside a volcano, it even looks like Hell.
It is just the two of them—plus Horus, of course. The team does not even exist at this time.
Their clothes are covered in mud and tar—they've survived a long and arduous path to get here. West wears his fireman's helmet and thick-soled army boots. Ten years younger, at age 27 he is more idealistic but no less intense. His eyes are narrow, focused. And his left arm is his own.
Boom-boom-boom! go the drums.
The chanting increases.
The woman's screams cut the air.
'We must hurry!' Wizard urges. 'They've started the ritual!'
They pass through several booby-trapped passageways—each of which West neutralises.
Ten disease-carrying molossid bats burst forth from a dark ceiling recess, fangs bared—only to have Horus launch herself off West's shoulder and plunge into their midst, talons raised. A thudding
mid-air collision. Squeals and shrieks. Two bats smack down against the floor, brought down by the little falcon.
That splits the bats and the two men dash through them, Horus catching up moments later.
West is confronted by a long downward-sloping shaft. It's like a 100-metre-long stone pipe, steeply slanted, big enough for him to fit if he sits down.
Boom go the drums.
The evil chanting is close now.
The woman's frenzied screams are like nothing he has ever heard: pained, desperate, primal.
West shoots a look to Wizard.
The older man waves him on. 'Go! Jack! Go! Get to her! I'll catch up!'
West leaps feet-first into the pipe-shaft and slides fast.
Five traps later, he emerges from the bottom of the long stone pipe on . . .
... a balcony of some kind.
A balcony which overlooks a large ceremonial cavern.
He peers out from the balcony's railing and beholds the horrifying sight.
The woman lies spreadeagled on a rough stone altar, tied down, legs spread wide, writhing and struggling, terrified.
She is surrounded by about twenty priest-like figures all wearing hooded black robes and fearsome jackal masks of the Egyptian god Anubis.
Six of the priests pound on huge lion-skin drums.
The rest chant in a strange language.
Incongruously, surrounding the circle of robed priests, all facing outward, are sixteen paratroopers in full battle-dress uniforms. They are French, all brandishing ugly FN-MAG assault rifles, and their eyes are deadly.
Beyond all this, the chamber itself catches West's attention.
Cut into the very flesh of the volcano, it branches off the volcano's glowing-red core and is octagonal in shape.
It is also ancient—very ancient.
Every surface is flat. The stone walls are so perfectly cut they look almost alien. Sharp-edged rectangular pipe-holes protrude from the sidewalls.
Hieroglyphics cover the walls. In giant letters above the main door, the biggest carving reads:
'Enter the embrace of Anubis willingly, and you shall live beyond the coming of Ra. Enter against your will, and your people shall rule for but one eon, but you shall live no more. Enter not at all, and the world shall be no more.''
Interestingly, the raised pattern on the high ceiling exactly matches the indentations on the floor fifty feet below.
The ceiling also features a tiny vertical shaft bored into it—in the exact centre, directly above the altar.
This ultra-narrow vertical shaft must reach all the way to the surface because right now, a beam of noonday sunlight—perfectly vertical, laser-thin and dazzlingly bright—shines down through the tiny hole, hitting . . .
. . . the altar on which the woman lies.
And one other thing:
The woman is pregnant.
More than that.
She is in the process of giving birth . . .
It is obviously painful, but it's not the only reason for her screams.
'Don't take my child!' she cries. 'Don't. . . you . . . take . . . my . . . baby!'
The priests ignore her pleas, keep chanting, keep drumming.
Separated from the ceremonial chamber by a chasm fifty feet wide and God-only-knows how deep, West can only stare helplessly at the scene.
And then, suddenly, a new cry joins the wild cacophony of sounds.
The cry of a baby.
The woman has given birth . . .
The priests cheer.
And then the chief priest—he alone is dressed in red robes and wears no mask—pulls the child from the woman's body and holds it aloft, illuminated by the vertical laser beam of sunlight.
'A boy!' he cries.
The priests cheer again.
And in that moment, as the chief priest holds the child high, West sees his face.
'Del Piero . . .' he breathes.
The woman wails, 'Please God, no! Don't take him! No! Noooor
But take him they do.
The priests sweep out the main entrance on the far side of the chamber, crossing a short bridge, their cloaks billowing, the boy held tightly in their midst, flanked by the armed paratroopers.
As they do, the noonday Sun moves on and the dazzling vertical laser beam of light vanishes.
The chief priest—Francisco del Piero—is the last to leave. With a final look, he stomps on a trigger stone in the main doorway and then disappears.
The response is instantaneous.
Spectacular streams of lava come blurting out of the rectangular holes in the walls of the cavern. The lava oozes across the floor of the chamber, heading toward the central stone altar.
At the same time, the ceiling of the chamber starts lowering—its irregular form moving towards the matching configuration on the floor. It even has a special indentation in it to accommodate the altar.
The woman on the altar doesn't notice.
Either from emotional torment or loss of blood, she just slumps back onto the altar and goes still, silent.
Wizard arrives at West's side, beholds the terrible scene.
'Oh my God, we're too late,' he breathes.
West stands quickly.
'It was del Piero,' he says. 'With French paratroopers.'
'The Vatican and the French have joined forces . . .' Wizard gasps.
But West has already raised a pressure-gun and fires it into the lowering ceiling of the chamber. The piton drives into the stone. A rope hangs from it.
'What on Earth are you doing?' Wizard asks, alarmed.
'I'm going over there,' West says. 'I said I'd be there for her and I failed. But I'm not going to let her get crushed to nothing.'
And with that, he swings across the gaping chasm.
The ceiling keeps lowering.
The lava keeps spreading across the floor from either side, approaching the altar.
But with his quick swing, West beats it, and he rushes to the middle of the chamber, where he stands over the body of the woman.
A quick pulse-check reveals that she is dead.
West squeezes his eyes shut.
'I'm so sorry, Malena . . .' he whispers, '. . . so sorry.'
'Jack! Hurry!' Wizard calls from the balcony. 'The lava!'
The lava is eight metres away . . . and closing on him from both sides.
Over at the main entrance, a waterfall of oozing lava pours out of a rectangular hole above the doorway, forming a curtain across the exit.
West places his hand on the woman's face, closes her eyes. She is still warm. His gaze sweeps down her body, over the sagging skin of her abdomen, the skin over her pregnant belly now rumpled with the removal of the child formerly there.
Then for some reason, West touches her belly.
And feels a tiny little kick.
>
He leaps back, startled.
'Max!' he calls. 'Get over here! NowT
A gruesome yet urgent image: flanked by the encroaching lava and the steadily lowering ceiling, the two men perform a Caesarean delivery on the dead woman's body using West's Leatherman knife.
Thirty seconds later, Wizard lifts a second child from the woman's slit-open womb.
It is a girl.
Her hair is pressed against her scalp, her body covered in blood and uterine fluid, her eyes squeezed shut.
West and Wizard, battered and dirty, two adventurers at the end of a long journey, gaze at her like two proud fathers.
West in particular gazes at the little infant, entranced.
'Jack!' Wizard says. 'Come on! We have to get out of here.'
He turns to grab their loosely hanging rope—just as the spreading lava reaches it and ignites it with a whoosh!
No escape that way.
Holding the baby, West spins to face the main entrance.
Fifteen metres of inch-deep lava blocks the way.
And then there's the curtain of falling lava blocking the doorway itself.
But then he sees it, cut into the left side of the stone doorframe: a small round hole maybe a handspan wide, veiled by the same waterfall of superheated lava.
West says, 'How thick are your soles?'
'Thick enough for a few seconds,' Wizard replies. 'But there's no way to switch off that lavafall.'
'Yes, there is,' West nods over at the small hole. 'See that hole. There's a stone dial inside it, hidden behind that curtain of lava. A cease mechanism that switches off the lavafall.'
'But, Jack, anyone who reaches in there will lose their—'
Wizard sees that West isn't listening. The younger man is just staring intently at the wall-hole.
West bites his lip, thinking the unthinkable.
He swallows, then turns to Wizard: 'Can you build me a new arm, Max?'
Wizard freezes.
He knows it's the only way out of this place.
'Jack. If you get us out of here, I promise you I'll build you a better arm than the one you were born with.'
'Then you carry her and let's go.' West hands the baby to Wizard.
And so they run, West in the lead, Wizard and the baby behind him, across the inch-deep pool of slowly spreading lava, crouching beneath the descending ceiling, the thick soles of their boots melting slightly with every stride.
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