01-01-00

by R. J. Pineiro

  The soldier dropped the weapon and whipped both hands to his bleeding neck, unable to utter a sound. Joao followed the knife with matching speed, palm-striking the handle, driving the serrated steel through the windpipe, nearly severing the head. The soldier fell to the ground a corpse, blood squirting like a fountain, spraying Joao’s short skirt.

  Thirty seconds later he moved silently again, maintaining a rhythm, reaching a spot twenty feet from the edge of the clearing, spotting the dark silhouette of another man against the lighter background of the moonlit clearing extending beyond the lush vegetation. He also noticed a small fire under a coffeepot hanging from a tripod. Beyond that he recognized the couple who had put themselves in harm’s way to protect the sacred site. He felt relieved that they were still alive, and wished he could do more for them, but at the moment the Mayan chief had plenty to keep him busy.

  Lowering himself over the branches of a fern growing out of the side of a tree, two rocks flanking him as he used his knees to inch forward, Joao locked his predator’s eyes on a man who stood a few feet from the edge of the jungle holding a machine gun.

  Joao dropped to the ground, moving forward like a snake, silently approaching the motionless sentry facing the clearing. Joao estimated him at over six feet tall and with wider shoulders than he had. He assumed that the machine gun in his hands was not the only weapon the tall sentry had, feeling certain that if the guard was as careful as the guerrillas fighting government troops back in the eighties, the sentry would most likely be packing at least a handgun and perhaps a knife or two.

  The hunter approached his prey from the side, firmly clutching his knife while hiding under the light underbrush that gently swirled in the warm breeze. Files droned in the darkness. Mosquitoes buzzed near his ears. Joao kept his eyes fixed on the sentry, who was looking in the opposite direction. Inching forward once again, he stopped abruptly when his right knee rested on what felt like a weathered branch. Quickly, he tried to shift his weight but the light branch gave.

  Snap!

  Joao froze as the sentry, twenty feet away, automatically brought the weapon around and pointed it in his direction, moving it back and forth, obviously not sure of the exact origin of the noise.

  Joao waited, the knife, still bloody from his first two victims, clutched in his right hand.

  Hesitant, the sentry remained motionless, like a wax figure, the weapon aimed at a spot a few feet to the Maya’s left. The guard was being cautious, not amateurishly reacting to what could have been just a forest creature, but determined to check out the noise. He took two steps forward and scanned the terrain ahead with his weapon at the ready. Joao, now less than ten feet away, inched closer while hiding in the dark underbrush.

  At eight feet, the Mayan chief surged forward, arms stretched out, covering the few feet that separated them in less than a second, not giving the guard a chance to react. The sentry’s head was still facing the opposite direction when Joao drove the ten-inch steel blade across his throat, instantly severing the windpipe. Startled, the sentry dropped the weapon, bringing both hands to his neck as he collapsed.

  Joao pulled out the knife, stepping back as a spray of blood reached his face.

  The sentry convulsed momentarily before going limp, his eyes fixed on Joao, who stood a few feet away, the bloody knife clutched in his left hand.

  Wiping the blood off his cheeks, he leaned down and grabbed the corpse’s feet, dragging it behind the heavy foliage, noticing as he did this that the sentry wore a headpiece, a radio, which he removed and briefly listened.

  “Sergei? Hans? Alex?”

  Joao frowned, moving away from the corpse. The message told him two things. One, his men were also making progress going around the clearing, methodically eliminating the threat. Two, word of the missing men was getting out. Filling his lungs, he gave out a war cry.

  5

  Susan Garnett snapped her head toward the strange howl, sounding part human and part animal. “What was that?” she asked.

  Before Cameron could reply, Petroff was on his knees, clutching his neck, pulling out a black dart, looking at it with surprised eyes, collapsing on his side, eyes rolling to the back of his head, froth forming in his mouth. Celina rushed for the cover of a stelae while rapidly speaking into her small radio. Although Susan couldn’t understand what the terrorist said, it was obvious that they were under some kind of attack.

  Everything turned surreal. Cameron jolted up, pulling Susan along, racing away from their gear, toward the small limestone palace, the jungle coming alive with animal-like sounds, with screams, with sporadic gunfire, followed by more screams and more gunfire, the multiple reports echoing across the site, masking the origin of the sounds. A battle was under way beyond the edge of the clearing, and the two scientists were caught in the middle.

  Two bullets struck a column to their immediate right, exploding in white clouds of bursting limestone. Cameron dove for the cover of a small stone wall, dragging Susan down with him, cushioning her fall with his own body. The howls intensified. The gunfire subsided. Multiple steps preceded blurred movement from beyond the short columns of the ancient palace. The slim figure of Celina Strokk raced across the clearing between the temple and the palace, directly toward the scientists, her gun pointed at them, its muzzle flashes conveying her intentions.

  Limestone exploded around them, the debris striking Susan on the shoulder, the smell of gunpowder assaulting her nostrils.

  Susan screamed, falling back, caught by Cameron, who lifted her light frame with incredible ease, carrying her away from the boiling white cloud momentarily hazing the incoming terrorist.

  The archaeologist pressed Susan against his body as he raced back toward the courtyard, bullets striking stone with the sound of a dozen hammers. He clutched her even tighter, reaching the safety of a large stelae, setting her down.

  Her shoulder burning, her temples throbbing from her beating heart, Susan grimaced, ignoring the pain, reaching for the Walter semiautomatic, flipping the safety, sitting up, her back against the lumpy reliefs of the ancient stone, Cameron next to her, chest heaving, sweat filming his forehead.

  The terrorist fired several rounds before her weapon ran out of ammunition. Susan stood, leveling the PPK at Celina, catching her reloading, one hand on the spare ammunition clip, the other holding the empty weapon.

  “Drop it!” Susan warned, lining the front sight on the terrorist’s upper chest, imagining the silhouettes at her old shooting range.

  Celina grinned, opening her palms, unceremoniously letting go of the machine gun and the clip, which clattered on the limestone floor. The terrorist then slowly reached for her side arm, pulling on the Velcro strip securing the gun in the holster.

  “Stop!” Susan shouted, remembering her husband’s warning about limiting her speech to short words versus long sentences during this type of situation, otherwise it would take her longer to fire because her brain would first have to stop controlling speech before sending the command to pull the trigger.

  “Do not worry,” Celina said, grinning, her hand resting on the holstered weapon. “I am just disarming myself.”

  “Hands off!” Susan screamed, hoping her loud voice would convey her determination.

  Celina curled the fingers of her right hand around the gun’s stock.

  Out of options, Susan Garnett slowly released her breath while squeezing the trigger three times in rapid succession, the multiple reports echoing loudly and repeatedly across the site, like that of a machine gun.

  The rounds transferred their energy as they struck the terrorist right below the throat. She arched back, landing flat on her back, white dust curling out from under her body as she impacted the limestone hard, blood immediately pooling beneath her, fixed pupils staring at the canopy overhead.

  Susan lowered her gun, swallowing hard, realizing what she had done, what she’d had to do, silently cursing the terrorist for forcing her to fire the weapon. For several seconds she just stood there, st
aring at the slim body sprawled over the stone floor, catching her breath. Slowly, she flipped the safety.

  “She left you no other choice,” Cameron said, softly but firmly, pulling her aside, under the cover of the palace’s short columns. The echo from the Walther’s report died out, yielding to the high-pitched war cries from the warriors who had apparently claimed the lives of many mercenaries.

  Then an eerie silence descended on the site. Gone were the animal howls, the firearm discharges, the agonizing screams, replaced by the hooting of monkeys, the chirping of birds, the clicking of insects, the natural sounds of the jungle covering the swift battle.

  “What happened?” she asked, her shoulder throbbing, her hand still clutching the PPK, thumb on the safety lever, ready to flip it back up. She had fired three rounds, leaving five in the weapon, enough to defend themselves if another terrorist threatened them. But not one mercenary ever made it out of the jungle.

  “Your shoulder,” Cameron said, pointing to a bloody patch beneath the cotton shirt. “Let me take a look at it.”

  “Later. Right now it looks like we have company,” she said, watching a native emerge through the tangled bush, a long tube held in his left hand. Then another one emerged, wearing a short skirt.

  “Maya,” commented Cameron, inspecting the strangers from behind the shadows of the palace’s small terrace. Slowly, several Mayan warriors entered the site, many of them taking up posts around the pyramid, or the temple. Only one walked toward the palace, a medium-height, slim man with intense dark eyes, blood staining his chest and short skirt.

  “I mean you no harm,” he said. “Come out, please. The threat is now past.”

  Susan and Cameron exchanged puzzled stares.

  “He speaks English?” she asked.

  The archaeologist shrugged. “Beats me.”

  As they stepped outside the palace and onto the courtyard, an Asian couple entered the clearing from the east side, through the path made by the SEALs three days ago. They hauled large backpacks similar to the ones Strokk and his team had brought from the jungle the day before.

  “What’s going on?” Susan asked.

  As the Asian couple approached them, Cameron said, “I get the feeling we’re about to find—”

  A gunshot echoed through the night, coming from deep in the jungle. All heads swung in that direction. The warrior closest to Susan glanced at two of his comrades, snapping his fingers. Both natives sprinted into the jungle.

  “One got away,” the Maya said. “I believe it is their leader.”

  “Get the bastard,” said Susan.

  Cameron turned toward Susan, as did the Asian pair. The native regarded the computer scientist with an air of respect. “He will not get away. Wait here,” he said, before disappearing in the bush.

  6

  Antonio Strokk fired at a shadow made by a swinging branch under the moonlight. His senses clouded by the fear of these silent, undefeatable warriors, the former Spetsnaz officer raced across the thick jungle, toward the boats. He still had a chance if he could make it to the river.

  Carrying a few spare clips for his Sig Sauer pistol, plus his many years of experience, gave Strokk a surge of confidence about his prospects of coming out alive, of making it back to civilization, of surviving. He had enough money stashed away to buy himself a small island and live like a king for the rest of his life. Perhaps this was his signal that the time had come to retire.

  And so he ran, following the glowing readings of his sister’s GPS unit. His team was dead. He could not reach anyone on the operations frequency. Celina also had to be dead, probably killed while in the clearing, along with Petroff and probably the scientists as the savages reclaimed their site.

  And they can have it! he thought, regretting ever taking on this assignment, wishing he could turn back the clock. At the time it had seemed so easy, a straightforward surveillance operation, which had rapidly escalated into this mess from which he now tried to escape, tried to flee, one leaping step after the next, past clumps of moss-slick boulders, beneath hanging vegetation and cluttered vines, across mangroves, dashing through a small clearing, noticing the bones scattered across the dirt.

  Momentarily distracted, Strokk tripped on the carcass of some creature, crashing headfirst into a tall mound of dirt at full speed, stabbing the crusty surface, cracking it, going through, stopping when his shoulders struck the mound. His head inside, like an ostrich’s, the mercenary tried to break away but could not on the first backward jolt, taking him several vital seconds to bring his legs under him, pressing them against the base of the mound, finally breaking free, but at the price of shoving both feet into the mound. His stomach knotted as a swarm of ants spread across his head, stinging him with the power of a thousand white-hot needles, scourging his face, his nostrils, his ears, his neck, his shoulder.

  Eyes shut tight, pain-maddened, the terrorist kicked his legs, already covered with a thick layer of ants rapidly propagating up his thighs. He managed to free them, crawling back while slapping his face, his neck, struggling to wipe away the angered bugs crawling under his fatigues, down his back, across his chest, up his pants. He shouted in agony, only to give the ants another place to go, filling his mouth, biting his tongue, the ceiling of his mouth, reaching his throat. Dropping to his knees, coughing, Strokk made the mistake of opening his eyes, trembling from the blinding pain of dozens of insects stinging his eyeballs. His fingers brushed away the bugs as fast as others replaced them, in a vicious cycle that rapidly weakened him with the terrifying notion of being eaten alive, as he thrashed among the bones that had originally distracted him.

  Through the harrowing pain quickly robbing him of his sanity, Antonio Strokk half watched, half heard two natives approaching him, one from each side, keeping a safe distance as he convulsed over the ant-littered ground, shoving bones aside by the large mound, unable to coordinate his body, quivering from the savage pain, from the sanity-stripping madness that made him wish for instant death. He wished for the torture of a thousand Afghan women, for a dozen castrations, for anything but this devouring pain flaying him, consuming him.

  But the natives remained there, long after Strokk lost the ability to speak, his tongue swelling from hundreds of bites, filling his mouth, choking him. His left eye a bulging mass of ants and blood, Strokk managed to crawl back, to roll away, constantly slapping his face, ripping off his shirt, exposing a layer of ants feeding off his chest, shoving them away, feeling more ants crawling up his pants, onto his chest, tearing at his flesh.

  Racked by inconceivable pain, feeling his entire body ablaze—but much worse because the insects would not consume him fast enough to bring death—the terrorist reached for his side arm, turning it on himself, beneath his chin, his thumb fumbling with the safety, struggling to flip it, unable to do so as the ants continued to feed, continued to strip him of his flesh one bite at a time, making him lose control of his bladder and his bowels.

  Scourged, twitching, blind, trembling, he dropped his weapon, listening to it strike a rock, the sound mixing with the incessant clicking of insects crawling into his ears, shooting beams of raw pain straight into his brain. He wished for death, coveted it, begged for it to come, to take him away, for anything—absolutely anything—was better than the infernal reality of his situation.

  7

  Joao watched what was left of the terrorist, whose trembling limbs still conveyed life. The Mayan chief maintained a safe distance from the swarm of ants flowing out of the mound, glistening under the moonlight, resembling a river of molasses, rapidly enveloping its prey, claiming it, picking it apart, before returning to their mound with the nourishment needed for their young.

  Joao nodded. Nothing, not even the lowest, most despicable kind of human beings, went to waste in the jungle.

  Chapter Nineteen

  010011

  1

  December 18, 1999

  The new day brought along a new alliance, not just across cultures, but across time.
As the crimson sun loomed over the canopy of trees to the east, the jungle stirred to life. Night creatures receded into the darkest corners of this tropical habitat, giving way to the morning shift, to the hooting monkeys hurdling across a hanging sea of branches, losing themselves in the lush vegetation, and suddenly reappearing again, leaping through space, snatching limbs with Olympic grace, doubling back, and disappearing again, their blaring howls adding to the jungle concerto of chiming birds.

  Susan Garnett listened to the natural sounds echoing across the ancient Mayan site, the sacred temple of Kinich Ahau, according to Joao Peixoto, the remarkable Mayan chief who had delivered them from the terrorists.

  Joao conferred with Cameron Slater at the edge of the cenote. Joao’s men were busy replacing the gold and precious stones to their rightful places.

  The computer scientist rubbed her eyes and yawned, breathing the cool and humid morning air. Sleep had not come for some time last night. Instead, she had spent hours comparing notes with the astrophysicists, now peacefully snoring in their joined sleeping bags next to their gear. Susan stood and stretched. Cameron looked in her direction and waved. She waved back, before he returned to his discussion with Joao. Susan had also contacted Reid soon after the terrorists had been eliminated. A new team of SEALs was on the way, expected to reach the site by early afternoon.

  Reaching her gear a dozen feet away from the sleeping bags, Susan powered up her laptop and began to make changes to the electromagnetic search range, which she had tuned from 900 MHz to 1 GHz in increments of 10 MHz. According to the E-mail exchange she’d had with Reid last night, following the short-lived skirmish, Susan had learned that the binary map search resulted in no better matches than the night before last. Last night, however, the Japanese-Americans had provided her with great insight to fine-tune her frequency range. Their search for extraterrestrial intelligence (SETI) at Cerro Tolo had been focused on the frequency emitted by hydrogen atoms, 1.420 GHz, following the accepted theory among the SETI community that since hydrogen was the most abundant element in the universe, other intelligent worlds would likely choose this frequency to communicate.