by Richard Bard
His head whipped backward, and his entire body went stiff. It felt like his head was being overfilled with air, ready to burst any second, while the black beam probed every corner of his brain. His mind was invaded with a flash of numbers, data, and images. The rest of the world disappeared from his consciousness, and he felt himself drifting hopelessly in a black void of streaming information. It felt like every neuron in his brain was firing simultaneously in response to the massive exchange of data between him and the pyramid. Whatever was happening, most all of it remained buried in his subconscious—with the exception of one clear and frightening message:
Judgment day is coming, and you are the cause.
The information crushed him as surely as if the entire mountain had collapsed on his shoulders.
The data flow ended as abruptly as it had begun, and the obelisk released its grip on his hands. The little pyramid still hovered in front of him, but it had stopped rotating. Jake reached up with one shaky hand and wrapped his fingers around it. The force keeping it aloft was severed by Jake’s touch, and his hand dropped several inches from its unexpected weight. It was cool to the touch.
The heavy thrumming from within the obelisk faded away, and the violent, earthquake-like shaking in the chamber stopped. Like a drunk at the bar, Jake swayed back and forth, one hand holding the fist-sized pyramid in front of him, the other flat on the table to keep his balance.
Jake felt his face flush. His thoughts filled him with horror and self-loathing. “Dear God, what have I done?”
The circle of men stood stock still around him, mouths open, their wide eyes staring at the object he held in his hand. Battista stepped forward. “What are you talking about?”
Jake stared dully at the pyramid, oblivious to Battista and the men around him. “They’re coming. Because of me, we’re all dead. Everyone. Everywhere. Dead.”
Battista backhanded Jake across the face. “What are you talking about?”
Jake shook off the blow. He sorted through the images and information that had been flash-dumped into his brain. His overwhelming sense of hopelessness gave way to a reluctant acceptance of his fate. Of the world’s fate. After a few moments, he leaned forward and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “Don’t you see? Didn’t you hear it?”
Battista didn’t respond, so Jake continued. “This object is a kiosk, one of several placed around the world to determine when man’s intellect has advanced to the state that we might be capable of interstellar travel.” The pieces of the puzzle were coming together now in Jake’s mind, making his voice more confident. “No, they don’t care if we can make space shuttle trips into orbit or send probes to Mars. That’s child’s play. They want to know when we’re ready for real Star Trek kind of stuff. You know what I mean?” He changed his voice to mimic Captain Kirk of the Starship Enterprise. “To boldly go where no man has gone before!”
Battista scowled. “What—”
“Hah!” Jake said, ignoring the man. “And these geniuses—you know, the three humanoid guys in the picture—they figured that the best way to determine when we were ready to slip the surly bonds of Earth would be by monitoring our intellect, our smarts, the power of our minds. If we could solve the riddle of the obelisk, then the human race must be ready. Get it? They probably thought their plan was foolproof.”
Jake paused, and his breathing slowed. His voice was hollow when he spoke again. “Great idea, until Mr. Super Savant, Mr. Aberration—yours truly—came along and screwed things up by figuring out their puzzle a thousand years too soon.”
***
Battista kept his voice calm, as he would with a confused patient, hiding his own uncertainty at what had transpired here. “Are you trying to say that this obelisk was left here by beings from another planet?”
Jake nodded, his glassy eyes downcast.
“And because we activated their obelisk, they will now return?”
“Yes.”
He studied Jake, disturbed by the American’s demeanor if not his words, searching for a clue to what was either an extravagant deception or the ravings of a delusional mind. What he saw in the American was a man devoid of hope. Battista probed further. “And then what happens?”
Jake raised his head and looked at Battista, past the hatred, past the evil and fanaticism, and connected with the man for the first time since this entire ordeal had begun. “Then, based upon their confirmation that we as a race have learned to overcome the violence that is instinctual to our nature—which they observed through their studies of our ancient ancestors—they will guide us in our efforts to become part of a peaceful federation of thriving planets within our galaxy.”
Battista’s head tilted to the side, as if he wasn’t sure what he was hearing. His eyes narrowed. “And if we haven’t overcome our violent tendencies?”
Jake blew out a breath. “Extermination.”
Battista backed up a step, unable to mask his disbelief. After several beats he said, “You are quite creative, Mr. Bronson, I’ll give you that. But we both know this is nothing more than an elaborate charade.” He scratched his goatee. “Let’s just suppose for a second that you believe everything you are saying. Just how is your success with the, ah, aliens’ puzzle supposed to be communicated back to their world? Do they have hidden cameras here in the chamber or huge radar dishes the size of football fields waiting to beam the information across space?”
Jake didn’t respond. He didn’t care whether Battista believed him or not. According to his watch, they were both going to be dead in about seven minutes anyway.
“No, I don’t think so,” Battista said, his confidence growing. “Even if what you say is true—and of course it cannot be—the time has long since passed for there to be any danger to us helpless earthlings. The object is over twenty-five thousand years old. Sure, it had a little residual power left in its core to allow you to complete the test, but that is clearly the end of it.”
Jake grasped onto Battista’s words. What if he was right? The whole thing was so far-fetched. How could it be true? Perhaps he was delirious, hallucinating. The wounds on his arms and thigh burned; the strips from Francesca’s white dress were soaked through with blood. His head pounded. He was physically and mentally exhausted, and he had failed to find a way out of here so he could warn his friends about Ahmed.
Battista’s smile faded, replaced by his default sneer. “Step away from the obelisk and place your hands in the air.” The men surrounding Jake straightened at the order, their weapons once again leveled.
Wary, Jake lifted his hands and stepped backward. He staggered as the effects of the drug once again washed over him.
The obelisk suddenly began rumbling again, more loudly now, more insistently. It was accompanied by a high-pitched warbling vibration that bounced off the walls and assaulted Jake’s nerves. The entire pyramidal chamber began shaking, and the swirl of light-emitting crystals on its walls began flashing in an accelerating pattern that spiraled repeatedly up to the point in the ceiling. Jake stumbled to the floor, his fingers still locked around the small pyramid. It grew warm in his hand.
Battista and his men appeared to be frozen in place by the oscillating sound. Like figures in a wax museum, they stood unmoving with their weapons raised, though they seemed to be aware of what was going on around them. The rapid rise and fall of their chests was the only sign that they were alive. Their eyes were full of fear, transfixed on the obelisk. Jake spun around to follow their gaze.
The pyramid had risen out of the floor, hovering like its miniature offspring had before. It righted itself and began to spin, picking up speed with each rotation. Jake shuffled backward, still on his knees, realizing that unlike the men around him, he was still able to move. He thought it must have something to do with the little pyramid he held in his grip. He stood up and shoved it deep into the baggy pocket of his dishdashah.
The obelisk was spinning at an incredible speed, its visage blurred to a black void in the center of the chamber.
A mini tornado of dust and sand from the floor swirled into a vortex beneath it. The warbling vibration echoed off the walls and continued to rise in pitch, with the flashing light crystals on the walls seemingly matching its pattern.
Jake took two faltering steps toward the exit. He hesitated as he passed Battista’s rigid frame. There was no fear in the man’s eyes, only unmitigated hatred. Frustration and rage spewed from every pore of his being toward Jake.
A crackling buzz pulled Jake’s attention back to the obelisk. A laser column of blinding light burst from the top of the spinning mass and shot straight up into the ceiling. Jake raised his hand against the intense brightness, his eyes squeezed closed. There was a deafening whoop and a rush of wind that popped his ears.
The room stopped shaking and fell silent.
Jake opened his eyes to see a perfectly smooth hole—the size of a sewer tunnel—bored into the ceiling and up through the mountain. He stepped under the opening and stared up the impossibly long tube. The view at the end was filled with stars.
The obelisk was gone, on its way home with its message.
A shiver of movement by one of the soldiers brought Jake’s attention back to earth. Battista’s eyes blinked; the paralyzing effects of the obelisk were fading. Jake needed to run, but he refused to leave while Battista still drew breath.
He saw his grenade clipped to the bandolier of one the paralyzed guards. He grabbed it, held it up to Battista’s face, and said, “Like I said, asshole, Judgment Day.” Battista’s eyes went wide. His paralyzed lips twitched in a vain effort to scream, and a small drip of saliva slid into his beard.
Jake removed the comm unit from Battista’s belt, stuffed the grenade in its place, and pulled the pin.
Then he turned and sprinted toward the exit.
Chapter 48
Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan
TONY WATCHED AS FRANCESCA sat on the V-22’s stiff, inward-facing chair across from him, her face buried in her trembling hands, her shoulders quaking beneath her sobs. Marshall was beside her, one arm draped over her shoulders, his face a mask of despair. Ahmed sat alone at the front of the plane, just behind the cockpit, his backpack cradled in his lap. He appeared confused, anxious.
Tony clenched his fists. Jake was gone, surely killed or captured by now. In the end, he’d given himself up to save them all. You wanted to make a difference, pal, and you sure as hell did.
He glanced down at his watch. Three minutes until detonation. They needed to put some distance between them and the mountain that towered above them before it erupted and buried them like Pompeii under Mt. Vesuvius.
Tony flinched from a stab of pain in his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Lacey said as she dropped another blood-soaked wad of gauze onto the floor. She was sitting next to him, her eyes moist. An open first-aid kit lay on her lap as she re-dressed the nasty wound on Tony’s shoulder. Sarafina sat on Tony’s lap, her saucer eyes staring blankly. She refused to let go of him, clinging to his chest like he was her favorite stuffed animal. It tugged at his heart, reminding him of his own daughters.
The heel of his boot tapped the ground anxiously as the rest of the team clambered up the rear ramp. Juice was first in. He had Willie’s scorched body draped over his shoulder. No man left behind…except Jake.
Ripper and Papa shuffled in next, Maria supported between them. Becker followed, slamming his palm against the hatch button on his way in. The twin hydraulic pistons hummed as they pulled the ramp closed behind him. Tony looked past Becker, expecting to see Azim. Becker shook his head. “He didn’t make it.”
Tony grimaced at the loss. He’d learned that the mujahedin warrior had proved himself on the field, saving Becker’s life in the process. He hoped his end had been quick.
The first of the twin turboshaft engines wound up, and the pro rotor on the port side started spinning up to speed.
Kenny’s voice came on over the intercom. “Strap up. We’re gettin’ the hell out of here!”
Two minutes to go before the mountain blew.
Chapter 49
Hindu Kush Mountains, Afghanistan
THE MUFFLED EXPLOSION from the grenade behind Jake spurred him on. As he ran, the beam from his small flashlight danced across the floor in front of him. The small pyramid in his baggy pocket bounced against one thigh. He held the confiscated comm unit in his hand.
Jake’s mind raced faster than his feet. The image of the spinning object blasting up through the mountain and into space was branded into his consciousness. He’d just unleashed a power beyond anything mankind had ever faced. Thanks to him, the question of whether we are alone in the universe was about to be answered once and for all, and the news wouldn’t bode well for the human race. The obelisk was on its way to its maker, carrying its false warning, paving the way for man’s annihilation. His stomach quaked at the thought.
Angry voices rose in the distance behind him. Battista was surely dead from the grenade, but his body would have shielded at least some of his guards from the shrapnel. There’d be a few moments of hesitation at seeing their leader dead, but Jake knew they’d soon be coming after him fast and hard.
The tunnel steepened, but Jake refused to slow down. The burning in his legs was a welcome distraction. The passage would take him to the main level and give him a chance to get to the clearing. Since Marshall had disabled the communication system within the caverns, Jake had to get outside so he could radio the plane and warn them about Ahmed.
He sped up at the sound of a percussive rumble not far in front of him. The ground under his feet trembled. At first he thought it was Tony’s hotwired explosive device going off early, but the sound and the shaking faded too quickly. The sulfuric, rotten-egg smell of natural gas drifted past him, getting thicker as he ran forward. The floor leveled, and he slid around a sharp bend into a large corridor.
He swept his light back and forth to get his bearings in the pitch-darkness. This was the main tunnel he had originally dropped into. The narrow tube that had nearly trapped him was to his right, and the facility’s main exit was to the left. He took three strides toward the exit and froze.
A gaping hole stretched across the full breadth of the tunnel floor, part of the laser-smooth shaft left by the obelisk’s rocketing departure. The sacred chamber must be directly below him. A wall of dust from the darkness beyond the hole billowed toward him, only to be sucked into the shaft like smoke through a chimney. Jake aimed his light around the edges of the vertical opening, looking for a way to cross over. But the hole in the floor was wider than the corridor, leaving no edges for a foothold. The smell of natural gas was thick in the air. He swiveled the flashlight to the ceiling and saw that the electrical conduit and gas lines had been sheared. The air shimmered with dust-filled waves of gas, thirsty for a flame. When Tony’s detonators ignited the explosives down below, this corridor was going to blow like it was hit by a bunker buster. Even a spark from one of the guard’s weapons could set it off.
Just beyond the edge of the hole, the flashlight’s beam pierced the thinning cloud of dust to find a wall of rocks and rubble. A cave-in—likely an aftereffect of the pyramid’s dramatic departure—filled the corridor from floor to ceiling.
Even if he could find a way past the opening in the floor, the path to the clearing was blocked.
Jake yanked the comm unit from his belt, praying that he might get a signal through the wide shaft in front of him. “Cal, Kenny, do you read me?”
No reply.
He checked the frequency and tried again. “Cal, this is Jake, dammit. Tell me you can hear me!”
Static.
The low-battery light on the comm unit flashed on.
Jake knew in his gut what he had to do, but his mind didn’t want to accept it. He flicked the transmitter one last time. “Cal, if you can read me, there’s a bomb on the plane. Ahmed has a bomb!”
He released the transmit button and listened, but the only thing he heard was the pounding boots of
Battista’s men running up the small tunnel that he had just exited.
Jake spun around and sprinted in the opposite direction, his heart in his throat with the realization that the only way out was through the tight tube that led to the cliff face. He put every bit of his energy behind running as fast as he could, trying desperately to stay one step ahead of his mind. Sweeping the beam of his light along the ceiling, he searched for the opening that he knew was there. He spotted it in the distance, a mounded pile of earth and rocks beneath it.
There were shouts behind him.
Without stopping, Jake pocketed the comm unit, jammed the flashlight between his teeth, and took a running leap off the earthen pile with his arms stretched high above him. He snagged the ragged lip of the opening with his hands. His forward momentum ripped at his grip, but he held on and heaved himself up, welcoming the distracting pain from the knife wounds in his arm. With a final kick in the air, he lurched into the small crawl space.
Jake scrambled forward on his hands and knees, refusing to slow down. When he reached the impossibly narrow choke point, he threw himself on his chest and pushed forward. His fingertips curled and locked onto tiny crevasses. The muscles of his arms and wrists strained in unison with his toes and knees as he wiggled and pulled his way through the tiny aperture.
With a final panic-filled jerk, he made it to the other side.
Jake panted heavily, his lips peeled back from around the flashlight as he sucked air in his mouth. Soiled sweat dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes. He ignored it and kept moving, pushing up to his hands and knees. Three or four quick crawls and he dropped down into the man-sized tunnel that led to the opening in the face of the cliff.
He took the flashlight out of his mouth and kept running, leaping over stones and crevasses in a barely controlled headlong rush. With shaking hands, he aimed the light at his watch.
Three minutes.
Cal and Tony would make sure they were well in the air before that. That gave him less than two minutes to establish a clear line-of-sight signal to make radio contact. He ran with abandon, the flashlight out in front, its beam paving the way through the ragged tunnel like a headlight on a speeding locomotive.