Pagan's Ark

by Matt Eaton

  Azzam said nothing more, but kept circling around and around the ship, like this might eventually provide him with a rational explanation.

  It was at this moment Paolo finally made an appearance alongside Father Paulson.

  “About time you showed up,” Donovan said to him quietly.

  Paolo said, “It is a thing of beauty, no?”

  Nobody else seemed to notice his arrival. Donovan assumed they couldn’t see him.

  Paulson asked, “Is it actually floating?”

  “In its dormant state,” said Paolo, “the ship remains a cubit above whatever surface is beneath its lowest point. The ship generates its own gravity wave. It is essentially weightless.”

  “A cubit,” mused Donovan — “how much is that?”

  “About the length of your forearm,” said Paulson. “How are we going to move it?”

  “You merely have to push it out of the chamber.”

  Donovan scoffed. He found it hard to believe it would be that simple. “Is it dangerous, if we to get too close?” He kept snapping pictures.

  “There is nothing to fear.”

  Donovan lowered his camera, finally realizing why Azzam had gone so quiet. He was no longer anywhere to be seen in the chamber with them. “Where’d our friendly captain go?”

  “Probably out for a cigarette,” said Paulson. “The man’s a chimney on legs.”

  Donovan walked up to the spacecraft and placed his hand on the hull. It was cold to touch, made of an exotic metal alloy unlike any aircraft fuselage he’d ever encountered. Then, when he tried to place his hand on the ship’s leading edge, he felt resistance, like when you try to push the same pole of two magnets together. “What the hell...” He tried harder. Instead of getting his hand closer, the ship just started to move away from him.

  “It is the gravity wave,” said Paolo. “When the ship is powered up, it is physically impossible to approach the hull — the propulsion system pushes you away.”

  Donovan watched as the ship continued moving toward the wall of the chamber, where it bounced off in a different direction like a cue ball on a pool table.

  “In its dormant state,” Paolo explained, “the ship retains a vestige of this gravity field, which both protects it and renders it weightless. You will need to slow its movement now, or it will start to build momentum as it keeps bouncing off the walls.”

  “What’s it doing here, Paolo?” Donovan asked.

  “I placed it here. I stole it — from my people.”

  Donovan said, “I bet they weren’t too happy about that.”

  Paolo said, “It was my ark, for when the flood came. My final means to stay alive and escape the Ryl’s dominion.”

  “Why didn’t you use it?”

  “They found out. Took me captive. Demanded I return their ship. I told them it was no longer in my possession. They didn’t believe me.”

  “With good reason, apparently,” said Paulson.

  “I knew they would kill me when I gave them what they wanted,” said Paolo.

  Paulson said, “But you told me they kept you alive because you were one of them.”

  “A half-truth, Father. I hope you may find it in your heart to absolve me of that small sin.”

  ***

  By standing either side of the ship, Donovan and Paulson worked out they could bring it to a halt. Then they slowly began the process of shifting it toward the chamber entrance. They did this with the help of the soldiers. As Paulson had rightly suggested, they found Azzam puffing on a cigarette, and true to form he didn’t lift a finger to help. But once they got the angles right, shifting the ship proved to be relatively easy. They had it safely on the back of their truck inside 30 minutes. It was much wider than the truck, which could prove a problem in built-up areas. They would have to drive slowly.

  Tethering the ship to the truck’s flatbed was somewhat more complicated. They were forced to remove the canopy because the spacecraft was much wider than the truck. This meant they had fewer options in tying it down. They threw large tarpaulins over the ship in the hope of keeping it hidden from view, then secured it in place with two perpendicular ropes tossed over the top and tied as tight as they could manage. This didn’t completely stop the ship from moving sideways, but at least ensured it wouldn’t simply get left behind when the truck drove away.

  As per Paolo’s instructions, Donovan played the Hymn To The Moon Goddess a second time to seal the chamber. Donovan and Paulson then took turns with the soldiers to shovel earth back into the hole they had dug beside the temple wall to help cover their tracks.

  They had to leave the speakers behind because they had no space left on the truck to carry them out again. But Donovan kept the tape recorder and, most importantly, the recording itself.

  The light was fading fast by the time they pointed the truck back in the direction of Beirut. It was crowded now with four people in the truck cabin. Azzam made the two soldiers ride in back with the saucer. It made sense to have them keep close watch over their cargo and they wouldn’t have fit up front anyway. They met up with the other soldiers from Azzam’s platoon just outside of town and began the journey back to the capital.

  Donovan stuck his head out the window of the truck cab and silently bid farewell to the ancient town of Baalbek, breathing a sigh of relief that they had accomplished their mission and made it out cleanly. As he pulled his head back inside, he noticed Paulson watching him closely, eyebrow raised. “That almost seemed too easy,” he told the priest.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  Corporal El Masry began humming the opening notes of the Hymn To The Moon Goddess. They were all laughing and singing along with him when the troop carrier in front of them exploded in flames. El Masry had to slam on the brake to avoid crashing into the burning vehicle. It kept rolling slowly as men leapt off the back of it, uniforms on fire and screaming in agony.

  Confirmation of the source of the attack came when a MiG-15 roared over their heads low enough to part their hair. Donovan wasn’t sure if the jet would come back for a second run. From what Paolo had told them, the Ryl spacecraft’s gravity propulsion system rendered it immune to attack. But that wouldn’t be enough to save anyone on the truck. The road ahead was blocked now by the burning troop carrier and the bodies of men rolling around in the dirt trying to extinguish their burning fatigues. Donovan stuck his head out the window again and saw trucks fanned out across the road about a quarter of a mile behind them cutting off any retreat.

  Someone had betrayed them to the damn Russians. He looked at Azzam, who was still gripped by the spectacle of his men dying in front of him, but made no move to go to their aid.

  “Sir,” Corporal El Masry asked Donovan, “what we do? What we do?”

  “Who gave us up?” Donovan asked Azzam.

  The captain didn’t respond and Donovan knew. Headlights from an approaching jeep caught the side mirrors of the truck. It stopped a short distance behind them. A figure hopped out and Donovan recognized him immediately when he stepped into the light. “That’s Danilov,” Donovan realized.

  Azzam was surprised “You know him?”

  “Colonel Vasily Danilov. Second in command of the Soviet sector in Berlin after the war. He’s a stone-cold killer.”

  Bizarrely, Azzam was emboldened by this information. “I will speak to him,” he said.

  “Will you? And what will you say?” Donovan asked.

  “These are my men he has butchered,” said Azzam. “It is my responsibility.” He opened the cab door and leapt out.

  “You can’t trust him,” Donovan warned. Azzam merely looked at him and smiled, confirming Donovan’s suspicions.

  During his time in Berlin, Danilov had earnt himself a reputation for ruthless cruelty. Donovan knew for certain he had personally shot numerous Germans caught trying to flee to the American zone. Donovan watched closely as Azzam approached the Russian. They exchanged a few words, but it was impossible to hear what was being said, or even what lan
guage was being spoken. Azzam was probably objecting to the fact that Danilov had seen fit to kill some of his men and no doubt trying to tell Danilov this wasn’t part of the deal.

  “What’s happening?” asked Paulson, now trying to hide himself in the footwell.

  “The Russians want a ride on our magic carpet,” said Donovan.

  Paolo materialized in the cab at that moment, prompting a yelp of shock from Corporal El Masry. “You must get inside the spacecraft. It is your only means of escape.”

  “You want us to fly that thing out of here?” said Donovan. “We don’t even know if it’s still capable of flight.”

  “Who... w...w...what is this?” El Masry stammered.

  “It will fly,” said Paolo.

  El Masry instinctively reached out toward Paolo, but found to his alarm his hand passed straight through. “A ghost,” he screamed. “He’s a ghost.”

  Donovan suspected the truth would sound even more alarming at this point. “Yes, but he’s a friendly ghost. Now, how do we get to the ship without starting a shootout?”

  “The rear window. It open out,” said El Masry who, despite his fear of ghosts, knew anything was better than a firefight with the Russians.

  If they exited the cab that way, there was a decent chance they could stay unseen underneath the tarpaulin. Donovan glanced back in the rear-view mirror. Danilov was yelling now, pushing Azzam away from him. Azzam held his ground and kept talking, but Danilov had already grown tired of the conversation. He nodded once more then pulled out his revolver and shot Azzam between the eyes. If there was one thing Danilov hated more than a deserter, it was a corrupt double agent.

  Seeing this proved too much for the soldiers in the rear of the truck. They leapt out and opened fire, taking down three Russian soldiers before they too were shot dead. Danilov yelled to his men to start advancing around the truck.

  “Get that window open,” Donovan hissed at El Masry, “we’re leaving now.”

  CHAPTER 12

  They had no more than a few seconds before the truck would be surrounded by Russian soldiers. El Masry’s hand was shaking as he turned the handle on the rear window latch. It pushed open about two inches then stuck fast against the hull of the spacecraft. Donovan leapt over the seat to help, throwing all his weight against the glass. It wouldn’t budge. The spacecraft hatch was right there on the other side of the glass, but they couldn’t get to it.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Donovan hissed. He plucked the corporal’s side arm from its holster and started pounding on the window with the butt of the weapon.

  It took five solid cracks to break through, by which time the Russians had opened fire. Bullets began pinging off the driver’s cabin and made strange ricochet howls as they were deflected off the ship’s gravity field.

  Donovan frantically smashed the last of the glass from the bottom of the window, but there were fragments hanging all over the window frame and it was going to be impossible to exit in a hurry without getting cut to ribbons.

  “Shirt,” Donovan screamed at the corporal. El Masry nodded in understanding and stripped half naked. Donovan folded the man’s shirt in two and threw it across the bottom of the window. “Go,” he yelled. El Masry leapt through the hole and scrambled up into the ship. “You next, Father.”

  Paulson put his hand on Corporal El Masry’s shirt and had one leg through the window opening when the face of a Russian soldier appeared in the driver’s side window. Donovan, who was still holding El Masry’s pistol, shot the man through the eyeball. He was dead before he hit the ground, prompting a renewed volley of gunfire but hopefully ensuring nobody else would be stupid enough to get so close.

  Paulson was painfully slow in getting his sorry ass through the window and into the spacecraft. Donovan was still throwing his camera strap around his neck when he heard a dull thud on the seat, followed by the clatter of something falling down into the footwell. He looked back and saw to his enormous displeasure it was a Russian hand grenade. He dived headlong through the broken window and the spacecraft yelling “hatch” as he began to pull himself up an internal ladder into the ship’s main cabin. There was a dull thud and a clatter of flying metal behind him as the grenade exploded. Shrapnel blasted against the outer edge of the ship and he thought he felt a small piece ricochet into the hatchway.

  The ship’s interior was remarkably sparse and very dark, though not entirely black. Its inner skin was warm to the touch, some strange composite material unlike anything Donovan had ever seen. There was space enough for them all to stand in a crouch. Most of the cabin was taken up by two white pilot seats that rose from the hull like tall champagne flutes. In front of them was a blank white panel made of glass. A dim light within the panel itself was the cabin’s only illumination. Paulson had already sat himself down in one of the seats. The corporal was squatted behind, presumably thinking the panel might offer some sort of cover if the Russians followed them into the ship.

  “Now what?” Donovan asked nobody in particular.

  As if in response, Paolo reappeared, once more prompting another nervous cry from El Masry. In the cramped space, Paolo’s apparition overlapped them. Only parts of him were visible. It made a strange moment even harder to come to terms with.

  “Sit down and touch the top of the panel,” Paolo told Donovan.

  He sat down beside the priest and touched the panel. It instantly began to glow brighter, as did the rounded walls of the cabin itself.

  “We need to shut the outer hatch,” said Donovan.

  “You just did,” said Paolo. There was a dull thud outside. Probably another grenade.

  “You hurt,” said El Masry, pointing at Donovan’s leg, where blood was oozing from a gash.

  “Damn ricochet,” said Donovan, immediately dismissing the wound as irrelevant. “OK, how do I fly this thing?”

  “It flies by means of focused thought,” said Paolo. “It is attuned to my thoughts, but I believe it will work for you with my help.”

  “You believe...? Christ on a bike, this ship just became our tomb if you’re wrong,” said Donovan.

  “You will need to allow me to access your mind. It will not be pleasant, but it is the only way.”

  “Then do it, for God’s sake,” Donovan yelled. Paolo nodded and vanished from view and Donovan immediately felt a sharp pain in his temples. It felt like something was growing inside his head and was pushing his brain apart to make room. He tried not to think too much about whether it would do permanent damage and forced himself to surrender, though every cell in his body was screaming in objection to this violent invasion.

  A window appeared in the hull of the ship and they watched the ground disappear beneath them as the ship rose into the sky with enormous speed. A moment later, Donovan felt the pressure in his skull ease as Paolo’s influence withdrew again. He slumped in the pilot’s chair and took a deep breath.

  “Remind me never to do that again,” he said to Paolo when he rematerialized. He was all blurry now. Dreamlike. Donovan sensed he was close to blacking out.

  “I’m afraid it will be necessary one more time,” said Paolo. “We are free from the Russians, but you must decide upon our destination.”

  “A... A... America,” Donovan stammered.

  “No America — Beirut,” said El Masry.

  “Sorry pal, that ship has sailed,” said Donovan.

  “You must be precise,” said Paolo. “I need an exact location. You must visualize that location so I see it in your mind’s eye.”

  “Give me a second to catch my breath.”

  “Somewhere remote,” said Paulson.

  “Really?” Donovan replied brusquely. “Because I had been thinking the White House front lawn.”

  “You must remain focused in your intent,” said Paolo. “Choose your destination and be certain. Indecision is death.”

  “I know the perfect place,” said Donovan.

  “Can you see it clearly in your mind? It would help if it is somewhere you’ve b
een before.”

  “Oh, I’ve been there before all right.”

  Donovan could feel Paolo staring at him, waiting for a final signal. He took a few more deep breaths, the oxygen only slightly easing the ringing between his ears. Finally, he looked up. “OK, let’s do this.”

  The pain that followed was unlike anything he had experienced in his life. Far worse than the gunshot and shrapnel wounds he suffered in France in World War I, worse than the pain of being blown up by a hand grenade as men were dying around him. It felt like his very soul was being torn from his body, one muscle fiber at a time.

  All the while, he held firmly in his mind an image of their destination. He held onto that one thought for as long as he could, until he felt like it was the only part of him still remaining. Until it felt like the pain had torn his flesh into a million tiny pieces and turned his mind into pulp. One thought sustained him, kept him whole. Until that too vanished into black.

  After what felt like a millennium of darkness, the black began to slowly diffuse into grey and then to white. He heard a sound. A single word. “...ill”. It kept hitting him. “Ill... ill...”

  Wasn’t it obvious? Of course he was ill. He had never felt so ill.

  “Wake up.”

  “Bill... can you hear me? You did it.”

  He opened his eyes.

  He still had eyes. He could see. Not well, but there were colors. Movement. Shapes slowly coming into focus.

  Clarence Paulson was shaking him gently. "Wherever it is you've taken us, we've arrived."

  "Walker," Donovan said.

  Corporal El Masry was pointing through the main portal. "Soldier."

  Donovan blinked again and slowly the outside world came into focus. They were surrounded by soldiers pointing their weapons at the ship. "It's Walker Air Force Base. In Roswell."

  There was no sign of Paolo. He was about to tell Paulson he didn't know how to open the hatch, but realized he did know. Somehow that knowledge had been left behind in his head, like mental residue. He placed his palm flat on the control panel and below their feet a hatch opened silently. "Let me go first," he told them.