by Lynn Sholes
“I think we’re starting to see why the name Hades was chosen,” John said. “We’re potentially facing a global threat with catastrophic implications.”
“Hell on earth,” Cotten said.
“And it may already have been triggered,” Max said.
“With the possibility that we have only hours to stop it,” Cotten said.
The intercom phone rang, and Alan picked it up. He listened for a moment before holding it out to Cotten. “You have a call.”
“Who knows I’m here?” she said, reaching to take the handset from Alan.
Alan handed her the phone. “Apparently the Kremlin. It’s the president of Russia.”
conference call
“Hello, Mr. President,” Cotten said. “This is such a pleasant surprise.” She eased down into a nearby seat. “How is your arm healing?” Cotten listened intently for a moment. “That’s great news. Yes, my wounds have healed up just fine. Thank you for asking.”
John and Alan had taken their seats as everyone on the corporate jet stopped what they were doing to watch Cotten.
“To what do I owe the honor of this call, sir?” Cotten asked. She listened. “Actually, I’m onboard a private jet. We took off from Vienna about twenty minutes ago and are en route to London to refuel and then on to the U.S.” She glanced around the cabin as if taking a head count. “Yes, Cardinal Tyler is with me, along with Alan Olsen, the president of CyberSys, and his director of engineering, Max Wolf. A few other friends and family are with us.”
Again, Cotten listened before replying, “Mr. President, with your permission, I would like to place you on speakerphone. Would that be acceptable?”
Cotten gestured to Alan who took the phone, pushed the conference button, and placed the receiver back on the communications console.
“Mr. President, you’re now on speaker,” Cotten said.
The heavily accented voice of the President of the Russian Federation filled the cabin. “What I was saying was that the brutal murders committed during the theft of the Holy Lance seemed out of proportion to me. And I was asking Ms. Stone why she thought these men died such a violent death for something that is admittedly valuable, but not as priceless as other items in the collection.”
“We’re not entirely sure, Mr. President,” Cotten said. “But we have some theories.”
“After all,” the president said, “the crown jewels of the Hapsburg Empire are there, along with works of some of the greatest artists of the past thousand years. If I were the thief, I certainly would have taken them before the spear.” He laughed. “No offense, Your Eminence,” he said. “I know how precious the Holy Lance is to the Church.”
“None taken, Mr. President,” John said.
“I watched your news reports, Ms. Stone,” the president said. “Now I want to hear the details on which you base your theories.”
Cotten shrugged.
“Go for it,” John whispered.
“Mr. President, our theories are based as much on scientific fact as they are on legend. The Holy Lance has a history traceable back to the Garden of Eden. We think it was forged by the third-generation great grandson of Adam—a blacksmith named Tubal Cain. He produced the Lance from the hardened, crystallized sap of the Tree of Life, and Noah used lumber from the same tree to construct the Ark. We have found ancient writings that show that God commanded Noah to carry the Lance aboard the Ark because it would be used in some future event. We think that future event is about to happen. The Lance is made of hardened sap from the Tree of Life, a rare material now known as thodium. It’s needed for storing data in a fully functional quantum computer—a critical element in the final development of the computer.
“The reason we think the Lance was stolen is because there is a group building a quantum computer called the Hades Project, and will use it to break the security framework of the world’s resources. Their goal is to bring down governments, militaries, financial institutions, power grids, and international communications. The result will be chaos, anarchy, global war, and maybe the end of civilization.”
Cotten breathed deeply, wondering if what she had just said sounded as incredulous and ridiculous as she thought it might.
Seconds drifted by—ten, twenty, thirty.
Finally, she said, “Mr. President?”
Silence.
Cotten was about to ask Alan if he thought they had lost the connection when the Russian president said, “I am still here.”
“Mr. President, I hope you don’t think—”
“Cardinal Tyler,” the president said, “do you believe everything that Cotten Stone has told me?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Not only do I trust her instincts, but I have been a part of this since it first came to light. And I think if we don’t stop the Hades Project, the outcome could be even worse than she described.”
There was the sound of paper rustling.
“Mr. Olsen,” the Russian said. “I am looking at your dossier as we speak. As an expert in the field of . . . encryption and advanced, high speed data processing, do you believe what Ms. Stone has just told me?”
“Mr. President, I do. After meeting with Cotten and Cardinal Tyler, and based upon the recent events in Washington concerning the death of National Security Advisor Philip Miller, I have no hesitation in believing her.”
There was another long silence with the additional sound of pages of paper being turned.
“Mr. Wolf, the same question, please,” the president said.
“I believe that we’re on the verge of a global event that could bring down all order and security as we know it,” Max said.
The president could be heard conversing in Russian with someone. Then he said, “Ms. Stone, as you Americans say, there is good news and bad. But in this instance, I have bad news, good news, and really good news.” He seemed to smile through the phone at his cleverness.
“Please share it with us,” John said. “We could use some good news right now.”
“The good news is, Ms. Stone, that in the process of you saving this old Russian’s life, you stood within a few inches of the Holy Lance.”
Cotten could not understand what he meant as she racked her memory of the night in the tunnel dodging bullets.
“And the really good news?” John asked.
“The object stolen from the museum in Vienna is a worthless fake,” the president said.
There was a collective gasp in the jet’s passenger cabin. Finally, Cotten said, “Are you positive, sir?”
“Absolutely. The stolen object is a replica produced by an over-zealous Heinrich Himmler in 1935. The Reichsführer of the SS was quite obsessed with the occult. While impatiently waiting for Hitler to invade Austria and take possession of the Holy Lance, he had a replica made. The man was insane in so many ways—this should come as no big surprise.”
“How did the replica get into the museum?” John asked.
“The switch took place at the orders of Joseph Stalin when the Allies returned the Lance to the Hapsburg Museum at the end of the war.”
“Is this common knowledge?” Cotten said.
“No,” the president said. “It’s one of those little secrets, what’s the American word—tidbits—that gets passed to each Russian president. The tsar’s escape tunnel is another tidbit. Somewhat like that third secret of Fatima that each new pope gets to learn, Your Eminence.”
“I understand, Mr. President,” John said.
“You said that I stood within inches of the Holy Lance when I was in Moscow. You’re telling me the authentic Lance is there somewhere in the maze of underground passageways?”
“Actually, no. Stalin considered the Holy Lance his prized possession and kept it hidden away for almost eight years. Then in a private ceremony held in 1953, he chose to honor Vladimir Lenin by placing the Holy Lance inside the sarcophag
us under Lenin’s body. That same night, after dinner with Nikita Khrushchev and a few other party members, he collapsed in his bedroom and died. While you and I were in Lenin’s Tomb, you passed within inches of the relic.”
“And it’s still there?” Cotten asked.
“Yes.” He paused, speaking in Russian to someone with him. “Mr. Olsen? I assume that you are prepared to counteract this so-called Hades Project threat by using technology of your own?”
“Yes, sir. We have a miniaturized version of our Destiny quantum computer onboard along with the mechanical apparatus necessary to extract a sample of thodium. All we need is the Holy Lance. Once the system is up and running, we can go online, find and hack into the Hades machine, and shut it down.”
“Then I would recommend you alter your flight plan immediately. I will arrange for your plane to be given priority clearance through Russian airspace. Once you have landed in Moscow, you will be flown by military helicopter to the Kremlin. We will get you your thodium sample, Mr. Olsen, and we will wait with anxious anticipation as you rid the world of this Hades threat. Is that acceptable?”
“More than acceptable, Mr. President,” Alan said.
“Are there any other questions?” the Russian asked.
Cotten spoke up. “You told us you also had bad news.”
“You’re right, Ms. Stone. Do you remember the Chechen rebels who tried to assassinate me?”
“Of course, Mr. President. How could I forget?”
“The bad news is, they were not Chechen, and they were not trying to kill me. They were trying to kill you.”
the beginning
“Cotten, wake up,” John said, shaking her arm. “We’ve got a problem.”
She had finally dozed off soon after Alan informed his flight crew of their new destination—Sheremetyevo International Airport outside Moscow. He told everyone the flight would take about five and a half hours. Finally overcome from so much flying time and the fatigue from the last few weeks, Cotten had dropped into one of the plush leather seats and fallen asleep. Now she shook her head, trying to clear the dark place she had gone in her dreams.
“What is it?” she asked.
“The pilot says there have been a large number of plane hijackings reported across Europe, and the ATC centers are diverting traffic to alternative destinations.”
“Hijackings?” She stared up at him in confusion. “Who’s hijacking what?” She glanced out the window but saw only darkness. “Do you think this has anything to do with the Hades threat?”
“Not sure,” John said. “Maybe. It could be these aren’t true hijackings, even though planes are squawking hijack codes. It could be part of the Hades chaos that Max predicted.”
Cotten stood and glanced around the cabin. Lindsay, Tera, and Devin were all asleep. Max was at his usual place at a table up front, working with his laptop. She noticed that while she slept, he had brought out a few other computer cases—a great deal of electronics hardware was scattered around the cabin on tables and in seats.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
“Because we’ve been given a presidential priority clearance, we may be able to proceed according to our revised flight plan. But the pilot says that there’s a lot of confusion and disruption in communications. My guess is this may be the beginning of what we expected.”
“If it is, it sure didn’t take them long,” Cotten said. “Come on, I’ve got a question for Max.” She walked to the front of the cabin, John following, and waited for the director of engineering to look up from his work.
“Cotten, how was your nap?” he said.
“Sporadic. Max, something’s been bothering me since we had the conference call with the Russian president. If the object that was taken in Vienna was a replica, and not made from thodium, how are they going to proceed with the Hades Project? If this is the beginning of their assault, how are they carrying if off?”
“Good question,” Max said. “My guess is, they have another sample of thodium, but maybe it’s not enough to do the job. After all, we have simulated thodium in partical accelerators, but only a few atoms at a time. Or what they’ve got could be damaged or contaminated. If their sample was indeed from the Ark, think of how long it was exposed to the elements of nature. It could have degraded. We don’t know enough about thodium to predict the long-term effects. Objects that date back that far are subject to all kinds of external forces. Or maybe it’s not really thodium but something with similar characteristics that we haven’t thought of.” He scratched his head. “Still, they did go to a lot of trouble stealing the Holy Lance from the museum, thinking it was the real thing, so that means that whatever they’ve been using isn’t good enough. They stole the Lance because they need a good, solid sample.” He smiled a wicked grin. “Someone’s in for a big surprise when they go to slice up Himmler’s replica and discover it’s probably nothing but a piece of iron.”
Cotten turned to John. “That presents a bigger problem.”
“Which is?” he said.
“When they discover the Lance is a replica, they’ll become desperate. All the focus of the Fallen and the Nephilim will be directed at finding another thodium source. They’ve started this thing, and they can’t back down. By now, they know we’ve changed course and are headed for Moscow. It’s only a matter of time before they figure out why. We have to get to Red Square first.”
midair collision
“Where are we?” Cotten asked, looking out the window of the CyberSys jet into the night.
“Over Belarus, I think,” Alan said. “The capital city is Minsk—it should be off our left wing. We’re roughly four hundred miles out of Moscow.”
“I think I see the city lights,” Cotten said. “I’m also seeing what looks like some fires,” Cotten said, growing more nervous. “A couple of big ones.”
Alan went to a control panel and dimmed the interior cabin lights.
Everyone found a window.
“You’re right, Cotten,” Lindsay said. “Some are pretty big.”
“Is our navigation system working?” John asked Alan.
“Our instruments are working fine, but our pilot told me we can’t synchronize or communicate with anything outside the plane. There’s no contact with Russian air traffic control. After our conference call with the president I warned the guys up front this might happen. They’ll get us to Moscow, but where we land is the big question.”
“I see lights from two aircraft in the distance,” John said. “Looks like passenger jets. It’s hard to tell in the dark.”
“Where,” Alan asked.
John pointed.
“Oh, Jesus,” Alan said.
Lindsay gasped.
Cotten backed away from the window, her hand to her mouth. She saw the planes collide and immediately burst into blinding fireballs. Wreckage streamed down like misguided fireworks—chunks of burning debris leaving swirling tentacles of smoke as they dropped into the darkness.
“What is it, Momma?” Tera rushed to her mother’s side.
Lindsay took her daughter into her arms. “Everything’s okay.”
Cotten glanced around the cabin, which had become disturbingly quiet. Only the muffled roar of the jets filled the dimly lit space. Everyone had slipped into the closest seat, each staring unfocused at some distant spot. All she heard was the soft grunts of Devin rocking.
Finally, John said, “God help us.”
mig-29
“There’s another plane!” Tera called, bringing everyone out of their stupor.
“Where, sweetheart?” Lindsay said.
Tera had her nose to the window. Cotten saw the girl’s breath pluming on the glass.
“A military jet,” John said.
Cotten stared into the dark Russian sky at the jet fighter, so close she could see the glow from the instrument panel on the front of th
e pilot’s faceplate.
“It’s a MiG-29,” Max said, moving to a window. “My cousin built a model kit of one not long ago. I think NATO calls them Fulcrums.”
The cockpit door opened, and the CyberSys copilot emerged. “Mr. Olsen, the Russian pilot wants us to follow him.”
“How did you manage to communicate?” Alan asked.
“Most RF is down, but there are still a few radio frequencies that are hot,” the pilot said. “The fighter pilot held up a small whiteboard with a frequency written on it. When he lit it with a flashlight, we knew where to find him.”
“Where is he going to take us?” Alan said.
“All three of Moscow’s international airports are shut down,” the copilot said. “He wants us to go to Zhukovsky Airfield near a town called Ramenskoye. The airfield is used by the Gromov Flight Research Institute—a training and testing facility.”
“Thank you,” Alan said. “Do whatever it takes to get us on the ground safely.”
As the copilot returned to the cockpit, Cotten said, “So where is this place?”
“About forty-six kilometers from Moscow,” Max said, calling up the info on his laptop from a CD atlas.
“Look, Momma, he’s going in front of us,” Tera said.
Cotten saw the MiG-29 accelerate and disappear beyond the nose of the CyberSys jet. She turned to Max. “What do you need to do to get ready before we land? Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Actually, I have prepared all the gear for transport.” Max pointed to two suitcase-size containers sitting on a table across the aisle. “One is the portable Destiny computer processor and interface, and the other is the spectral hole burner.”
“You’re going to burn holes in things?” Tera said, standing nearby. She smiled with wide-eyed wonder.
“In a way,” Max said. “Once we get the Holy Lance, we’ll be storing one or two qubits of information per atom in the crystallized thodium that it’s made from. Then we’ll address the individual atoms by tuning the laser frequency—”