by Alex Lukeman
He waved at the cases, the Suburban. "Kind of like a camping vacation."
"Yeah, a vacation," Nick said. "I'd rather be at the beach."
Jungles triggered bad memories. Nick hated the insects. Every jungle had it's own, nasty variety. Poisonous centipedes that could make your arm or your leg blow up like a balloon. Vipers that hid unseen in the green leaves, with a bite that killed before you took a dozen steps. Venomous spiders crawling over you as you slept. Big mosquitoes that swarmed in millions.
The Yucatan wasn't as bad as South America. It had big spiders, but none that were poisonous. The worst problem would be the moscas, the mosquitoes. Then there were black scorpions, Las Alacránes. Evil looking with a bad sting, but not lethal. Or fire ants. Those would crawl up your pants and show you how they got their name, if you were unlucky enough to step on a nest. Army ants, that ate everything in their path. They'd eat your boots and you too, if you let them.
Much as he didn't like insects, he wasn't worried about them. He was more concerned about the snakes. The coral snake, the rattlesnake and the Cantil all lived in the Yucatan. The Cantil was like a cottonmouth, close enough. The coral was deadly. All three species lived right where they were going.
They got in the Suburban. Selena sat in front, Nick drove. Ronnie and Lamont sat in the back. Selena took out the map and unfolded it.
"First we head to Pisté. It's a straight shot on route 180. It looks like a good road," she said. "I think about two hours."
She turned on her GPS. The unit was programmed to show their position relative to the objective. She could switch to satellite view of the area with an infrared option. Harker had a geostationary satellite tasked on their target, giving them real time images. At the moment, the view was unhampered by cloud cover and showed nothing unusual. The ruins were invisible under the dense canopy.
"From Pisté there's a secondary road." She traced the route with her finger and compared it to her GPS. "We jog a little, then go south. The road heads into the jungle. The map shows it ending past a small village."
"What's the name of that town?"
"You'll just confuse your tongue, don't worry about it. I probably can't get it right, anyway. It's in Mayan. It will take a few hours more from Pisté."
"Do we get to see Chichen Itza?" Lamont asked.
"No, that's on the other side of Pisté."
"I've seen it," Nick said. "It's impressive. Big pyramid, with lots of steps. Also something called the Ball Court. They used to play a kind of soccer there."
"Soccer?" Ronnie said.
"It was a lot rougher then. The court is paved with stone and lined with stone walls. They put two stone hoops sticking out of the walls, high up. The idea was to get the ball through a hoop without touching it with your hands. No holds barred."
"What happened if you won? The king give you a trophy or something?"
"You were a hero, lots of feasting. Gifts from the king. The games were religious."
"And if you lost?"
"You got sacrificed to the gods. It made for pretty spirited competition."
"I'll bet there's some coaches in the NFL who wish they could do that. Talk about motivation, that would do it."
They gassed up at Pisté and turned south. The road was in poor shape. They turned east for twenty minutes, then south again at a cluster of shacks. The road became a rutted, muddy track, barely wide enough for the vehicle. The jungle closed in on either side. They drove in an eerie green tunnel filled with shifting shadows.
Nick kept the truck in four wheel drive as they bumped along.
Selena looked at her GPS. "Almost there," she said.
The dirt track broke out of the jungle into a wide clearing with a half dozen huts. The walls of the huts were of mud and cinder blocks. The roofs were thatched with jungle fronds and grasses that hung down around the eves. Children in ragged clothes stared at them and ran inside. Scrawny chickens scattered out of the way. A one-eyed goat watched them from a patch by one of the houses.
Two women chatted by a circular stone well. They looked up in astonishment as the truck rolled slowly past. Beyond the village, the track disappeared into the green.
"I don't think they get many visitors," Ronnie said.
"Wonder what happens on a Saturday night?" Lamont watched the women staring after them. Then they were past and back in the jungle.
"Not much," Nick said. "Selena, how much farther?"
"Not far. The road ends a half mile ahead."
Ten minutes later the road petered out in an overgrown clearing. The jungle was already taking it back.
Nick stopped and turned off the ignition. A glint of chrome shone through the greenery from something hidden in the dense growth. A blue Toyota SUV.
They got out. Nick took out his pistol and listened. The sounds around him were the endless sounds of the jungle, birds, rustlings in the thick undergrowth. The ticking of the engine in the Suburban was the only thing out of place.
He put the pistol away and walked over to the concealed truck, touched the hood. Cold. A narrow trail had been hacked out through the greenery, leading away from the truck.
Ronnie came up beside him and knelt down. Nick was quiet, waiting for Ronnie to do his thing. In Recon, he was legendary for his tracking skills. After a minute he stood.
"Five men. One big man. They're all carrying gear. Looks like they're headed where we are. Not today. Yesterday or the day before."
Nick looked at the makeshift path.
"Let's get the gear out."
"Complicates things."
Nick gestured at the narrow trail chopped into the growth. "But they saved us a lot of work."
They opened the aluminum cases. There were four packs with rations, extra ammo, a med kit, shelter halves. A water filter that could suck clean water out of a cesspool. It took a lot of hand pumping, but it worked.
"Where are the vests?" Ronnie said.
"What do you mean?"
Nick looked at the open cases. No vests. Then he felt a headache begin. He knew where they were.
Back in Virginia.
He'd screwed up. He'd been about to get the vests out of the equipment room in the Project when he'd gotten a call from his sister in California.
"Nick, you have to come home."
Shelley always thought of Palo Alto as home, where they'd been brought up. It sure as hell hadn't been much of a home for him.
"I can't come to California. What's the matter?"
"You're never around when you should be. It's Mom. She's had a stroke. I'm at the hospital. If you'd listened to me and let us put her in a home this wouldn't have happened."
Shelley was always on him about their mother, how he didn't do enough, how she had to take care of everything. In reality, she didn't have to do anything. His mother had Alzheimer's. He'd arranged for full time, live-in care for her. It let her stay at home. As long as there was someone to look after her, she was better off at home, where she still remembered a few familiar things. But she usually didn't know who he was when he called.
Shelley was mad at him for blocking her attempt to put their mother in a home and sell off her house. She was mad at him for being angry at their father. She refused to understand it. It had always been Nick and his mom who bore the brunt of his father's drunken rages, not Shelley. Shelley was Daddy's Little Girl. She still defended the son of a bitch.
Now she was telling him it was his fault his mom had a stroke. He felt his blood pressure rising, a tight band across his forehead.
"Shelley, drop the martyr act and the accusations and tell me how she is."
"That's just like you," his sister had said. "You can't take any responsibility for her, you just want to keep George and me from getting our share. You won't even come out when your mother needs you."
That was when he'd lost it. "Goddamn it, Shelley!" He'd shouted into the phone. "Just tell me how she is! You think you can do that?"
His sister's voice was cold over the phone.
"She's alive. I suppose that's all you need to know." She'd hung up.
Nick had wanted to hurl the phone across the room. For a short time after Jerusalem, Shelley had been a little more understanding, a touch more willing to see him as her brother instead of an obstacle in her path. It hadn't lasted long.
He'd put the phone away. He'd been so angry he'd forgotten about the vests.
"The damn vests are back in Virginia."
Ronnie looked at the cases. "Not much we can do about it. We probably won't need them. Plenty of times, we didn't have 'em."
"Yeah." It didn't make him feel any better.
They still wore the light civilian clothes they'd had on the plane. They changed for the jungle into heavy boots and camouflaged outfits that would blend into the greenery. Selena stripped with the others. No one except Nick paid attention. She was wearing red underwear. He remembered the dream of Selena wearing a red bikini.
Don't go there, he thought. It doesn't mean anything.
"Let's get the paint on," Nick said. They took turns covering their faces and hands with green and black and brown.
Ronnie looked at Selena. "Now you look right."
"Ready for Vogue," she said.
No helmets, only soft brimmed covers. Aside from their packs, each carried a knife, an H-K pistol and an MP-5N. Both guns were chambered for the .40 S&W round.
"Weapons check. Lock and load."
The clacking sound of the weapons sent a flurry of birds into the air.
He looked them over. His team. His family.
"We'll stay with the trail at first," Nick said. "There might be traps, so pay attention. Ronnie, you take point, then me, then Selena. Lamont, you bring up our six."
They headed into the jungle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Nimb Hotel was an architect's elaborate misconception of a Moorish palace, a five star monument to the craze for historical architecture that had swept the European continent at the turn of the twentieth century. The hotel featured an ornate facade of high Moorish arches fronting a covered veranda. Arched windows repeated the theme on the second story. An onion shaped dome topped with the crescent of Islam towered over the entry way. Six smaller towers suggested minarets.
A broad, flat terrace extended away from the front of the building. A flight of steps led from the terrace to a landscaped garden area, where a large, circular fountain shot jets of water into the air. The water made a constant, soothing murmur in the background.
Elizabeth walked out of the entrance to the hotel and scanned the area. She wore a long black coat and carried two manila folders in her left hand. Vysotsky sat in the sun at a table on the far side of the terrace, reading a newspaper and sipping espresso. He wore a medium length outdoor jacket, open to the fading summer warmth. He looked exactly like a tourist.
Alexei Vysotsky was handsome in a European way. No one would ever mistake him for an American. He was not a big man, nor was he small. His eyes were black and penetrating as he watched her approach. He wore steel-rimmed tinted glasses that reminded her of movies about WWII. He was hatless. His hair was black, showing streaks of white. High cheekbones and the shape of his face hinted at an ancestor from the Mongolian steppes. He stood to greet her.
"Director. You are even better looking than your picture."
Elizabeth found herself smiling. A charmer. "As are you, General."
Vysotsky held a chair for her. She sat down and laid the folders on the table, away from Vysotsky. He looked amused. A waiter appeared and took Elizabeth's order. Cappuccino, pastry. Vysotsky ordered another espresso.
They waited in almost comfortable silence and watched the fountain bubble until the order came and the waiter left. Vysotsky took a sip.
"I remember in the old days, in Berlin, how our two sides would sometimes have a quiet meeting to ensure there were no, ah, misunderstandings. There hasn't been much of that since then."
"It's a tradition you and I might revive," Elizabeth said. "Things are more dangerous now than ever. Conversation is always preferable to the alternatives. It's refreshing to bypass the usual obstacles."
"Let us be candid, Director. You would not have called me if you didn't need my cooperation. I admit, my curiosity is aroused. You mentioned Ogorov. What is it about him that requires this meeting?"
"You are aware Ogorov is part of AEON's leadership."
"I have only your word for that."
"I have no reason to mislead you. If you are unwilling to take my word, coming here was a mistake."
"You are talking about one of my government's leaders."
"I'm talking about a man who is part of an organization that respects no government. Not yours. Not mine. Ogorov has been creating problems for you with the FSB. If you didn't think something was suspicious you would not have come."
I surprised him with that. Good. Let him wonder how I know.
"You are well informed. Is this what you wish to talk about? Something in those folders, perhaps?"
"I believe AEON is doing something on Russian soil that may threaten both our nations. If they are, Ogorov is involved."
She slid the first folder across to him. He opened it and looked at the satellite picture on top. The resolution of their satellites is better than ours. He filed the thought away for future consideration.
"Your infrared spy satellites have been busy."
"Always, General. As are yours."
Vysotsky looked at the notation on the photograph.
"Irtysh? There's nothing there but an old air base."
"There is now. Look at the next sequence."
He turned the page. After a few seconds he frowned. Elizabeth watched him. Did he already know about Irtysh? Vysotsky turned to the next picture and the next. His face set into hard lines. He looked up.
"This is obviously an official project. Why do you believe AEON is involved?"
"Because someone is building a pyramid."
"A pyramid?"
"Look near the river. You can see a canal has been cut from the river to a square shape picked up by the infrared. That is the base of a pyramid. It's well camouflaged and hidden from direct view."
"Certainly there is something there. Why do you say it is a pyramid?"
"I've included pictures of several pyramids buried in the sands of Egypt. Notice the shape. The Irtysh image is identical, don't you think?"
He shuffled through the pictures. "How does this involve Ogorov?"
She gave him the second folder. "It will save time if you read this. It will take a few minutes."
The folder contained a copy of Selena's research on the Codex and a detailed action report about Mafra. Harker was taking a huge gamble. If Vysotsky was in some way involved, she had just handed her enemies everything they needed.
She was unable to do anything about such a large and secret project located in the heart of Russia. But Vysotsky could. She needed him, just as he had needed her to operate in America not long before. The game was on his turf.
Vysotsky read the brief. When he looked up, his face was expressionless.
"Director. This assessment of the Mexican pyramid strains belief."
She nodded. "Yes. However, the scientific principles are well understood. If someone could harness and amplify the Telluric energies, it would provide a source of inexhaustible power. Power that could be put to many uses. I believe that is what Ogorov is doing."
"Your accusation of Ogorov is based on identification of him as a member of AEON's leadership. That information was provided by an anonymous source."
"That's true. Do I need to point out that the source was accurate regarding the Demeter and Black Harvest plan to attack the Federation?"
"Minister Ogorov is a strong voice for our place in the world."
"Minister Ogorov is a man who has a higher priority than the welfare of Russia."
"So you say." Vysotsky emptied his coffee. He signaled the waiter over. "Vodka. Bring the bottle, your best quality."
He looked at Harker. "Two glasses."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Selena had learned a lot since she'd joined the Project. She wasn't a rookie any more. But walking in the Yucatan jungle with three former Special Forces veterans was a new experience. It showed her how little she knew. It made her feel like she was starting all over again.
For one thing, they were silent. More than once, she stepped on something that made noise, only to get a look of disapproval from Lamont or Nick. Ronnie was on the point. He didn't bother looking back.
She tried to imitate the way the others walked. They moved in single file, slowly, lifting each foot into the air and carefully setting it down again. They were aware of every twig, every stone, every leaf, every possible thing that could trip them or make noise as they passed. Their bodies were loose, yet tense. Their eyes never stopped moving. They scanned the canopy above, the jungle to the sides of the trail, the trail itself.
After a bit she got better at it. Her legs ached from the unnatural effort. She was soaked in sweat. Swarms of mosquitoes had found them. Nick looked back and smiled at her and gave her a thumbs up.
It's like he's on a stroll, she thought, a nature hike with weapons. He's enjoying this. The thought was like ice water on her body. He's enjoying this. It's what he lives for, the danger, the edge. He'll never change.
With the thought, a wave of sadness rushed over her. He'll never change. It's what he knows how to do, what he wants to do. But is it what I want to do?
No one talked. Ahead, Ronnie held up his hand. He pointed down at the side of the trail, moved to the side and forward again. She saw a brightly colored coral snake curled in a spot where sunlight filtered through the canopy. It ignored her.
After about an hour Ronnie held up his hand again and waited for the others to come up to him. Here, the trail widened a bit. They stood close together. Selena drank some water.
"We're close," Ronnie said. "Doesn't look like anyone's come back this way, yet."