Excalibur a5-6 Page 7

  “MKs are in water,” his sonarman announced. “Tracking two. Range one thousand.”

  The best weapon against a submarine was the same weapon Porter had just tried using — MK-48 ADCAP torpedoes.

  “Launch decoy,” he ordered.

  A small, but very “loud” submersible was fired out of one of the torpedo tubes and raced away, in the hope of drawing off the two incoming torpedoes. Porter realized he was gripping the edge of his command chair, his knuckles white, and he forced the muscles in his arm to relax.

  “Range five hundred. Still closing.” “Prepare for impact,” Porter ordered.

  “Three hundred.” The sonarman’s voice rose. “One is breaking off. Tracking the decoy!”

  Fifty percent, Porter thought. “One hundred.”

  Porter braced himself, his mind flashing to every submariner’s horror of implosion. He, along with everyone else on board, flinched as there was a loud thud from the direction of the bow. Porter blinked. But no explosion.

  “A dud!” His executive officer was the first to say it.

  “Helm, keep us moving out of here,” Porter ordered. “Damage control?”

  The XO hit the intercom, contacting the forward compartments. “Any damage?” Porter recognized the voice of one of his chief petty officers. “Nothing we can see. It hit”—there was a burst of static—“bulkhead. There’s some”—another burst of static—“wrong with—” The intercom went dead.

  “You have the conn,” Porter yelled at his XO as he dashed toward the forward hatch. He raced down the passageway, his movement slowed by having to open every hatch. As he reached the hatch just before the compartment they had been talking to, he stopped in shock as he noted a ripple effect in the metal. As he grabbed the round handle, he felt a sharp pain in his hands as if the metal were hot.

  He pulled his hands away and stared at them. No burn marks. But the pain was still there. Moving up his arms. His eyes widened as he saw the veins bulging in his arms — and they were black.

  Captain Porter screamed as the nanovirus reached his brain. A scream that was echoed along the length of the ship as the microscopic metallic virus invaded every crew member.

  Iran

  General Kashir commanded an army division headquartered in Tabriz in northwest Iran. It was a precarious post given the locale. To the north were Armenia and Azerbaijan. To the west Turkey, and below it Iraq. While the rest of the world had forgotten, no Iranian who had lived and fought through it could forget the brutal eleven-year war Iran and Iraq had waged against each other from 1979 through 1990. Almost two million had died during the fighting and neither side had gained more than a few kilometers of worthless desert despite countless offensives.

  The illegal use of chemical weapons, children being forced to charge across minefields to “clear” them, and execution of prisoners were all practices engaged in by both sides. A cease-fire was agreed to in 1990 but no peace treaty had been signed. Add in the unrest in the former Soviet provinces to the north and east, and the ever-present revolt of the Kurdish people throughout the area, and the region was as unstable as it had always been. With the recent assassination of Hussein in Iraq, all the militaries in the region were on high alert. There were those preaching — as ever — for a jihad against Israel, but Kashir knew that blood spite between Arabs would always rate higher than enmity for the Jews.

  There had been numerous “cleansings” of the officer ranks by the religious government and Kashir had not only survived them all over the years, he’d been promoted up the ranks to his present position. He owed everything to a secret alliance he had made early in his career.

  His office was located on the top floor of the tallest building in the city, with a commanding view not only of the town, but the surrounding countryside. As he had done daily for the past several years, he turned on his computer and accessed a secure e-mail server.

  Unlike every one of those days, today there was a message waiting from his secret benefactor.

  At first Kashir simply stared at the screen in shock for several moments. The subject line was the proper code word: scimitar.

  And there was only one person who had this address. Known for years as Al-Iblis to intelligence agencies around the world, he was now known as Aspasia’s Shadow. Kashir owed his rank and this position to Al-Iblis’s machinations over the years and now he knew that the marker was being called in.

  Kashir clicked the mouse and the message appeared. When he was done reading it, his eyes were drawn to the wide windows on the northern side of his office. It was a clear day and far in the distance he could make out a white-covered peak on the horizon. The mountain was over 120 miles away, but high enough to be visible. It was also over the border in Turkey.

  “Agri Dagi,” Kashir muttered as he stood and walked over to the window. It was the name the locals called the peak. To the rest of the world, it was better known as Mount Ararat. And his orders from Aspasia’s Shadow were to secure the mountain, even if it meant invading Turkey and causing a war.

  General Kashir picked up his phone and ordered his aide-de-camp to assemble his staff.

  Mars

  From the base, the summit of Mons Olympus, despite being three times taller than Mount Everest, wasn’t visible, as it was far enough away to be over the horizon of Mars. It was the largest volcano in the Tharsis Bulge, a ring of high mountains around Mars that were so massive they had caused the axis of Mars to shift over the eons.

  The dimensions of Mons Olympus were staggering. Over fifteen miles high. Over 340 miles in width at the base. The volcano was surrounded by an escarpment over four miles high. It was the highest and largest mountain in the solar system.

  And on the southeast edge of the escarpment, the greatest engineering feat in the solar system was under way by an army of robots. Eight-legged mech-diggers were tearing into the escarpment, cutting a path through it, using the rubble to build up a ramp that extended over one hundred miles into the surrounding plain. Mech-scouts were ahead of the diggers, near the peak, scuttling about on six legs, setting beacons into the rocky soil in a grid pattern. The machines were being controlled by a guardian computer located underground at Cydonia, a location that had long stirred controversy on Earth because of images taken of the area by probes showing a “face” and other nonnatural shapes on the surface. They indeed turned out to be not natural — an Airlia base where Aspasia had been exiled after Atlantis was destroyed. He, his fleet, and most of his followers were killed when Turcotte booby-trapped the Area 51 mothership in space and exploded it as Aspasia and his followers tried to board.

  The remaining handful of Airlia living at Cydonia were cut off not only from their home world but from Earth as Aspasia’s Shadow ignored them, retribution for millennia of being cut off from them and battling on Earth without their support as they slept.

  In a long path from Cydonia to Mons Olympus, a line of mech-carriers was moving, their claws, gripping debris uncovered from the ruins of the “face.” The movement had been noticed on Earth and was being tracked by Larry Kincaid, a NASA specialist who was part of the Area 51 team. The purpose of the movement and what was planned on Mons Olympus, however, remained a mystery.

  Dimona, Negev Desert, Israel

  Simon Sherev nodded at the four guards behind the bullet- and blast-proof glass as he passed their station. The four men watched him with cold eyes, muzzles of their Uzis stuck through portals following him even though they knew who he was and around his neck was the proper access card. The men took their jobs very seriously for behind the large steel vault doors to their rear lay the true might of Israel: two dozen atomic warheads.

  That vault, while it was the most important charge in Sherev’s command at Dimona, was not his destination. Instead he continued down the underground corridor until he came to a second vault. It held objects that had power of a different kind. Sherev showed his pass to the soldiers guarding this bunker, then pressed his face against a retinal scanner. The bulletproof clea
r door opened with a loud click.

  Sherev stepped through, passed the guards, then repeated the process with the vault door. It slowly swung open, lights automatically going on inside. Sherev went inside and hit the control shutting the door behind him. The vault was about forty feet deep by twenty wide, with a high ceiling. Three rows of tables went from front to rear. On them were various artifacts, some human, some they had found to be Airlia.

  His focus, however, was on the closest table and the most recent addition to the state of Israel’s secret archives. Taken from the Mission’s base under Mount Sinai, the Ark of the Covenant rested on a cloth-covered platform. Sherev stopped just short of the table, getting his first good look at the artifact.

  The Ark was three feet high and wide and about four feet long. The surface was gold-plated. On the lid were two sphinxlike figures with ruby-red eyes. From the reports he’d received, Sherev knew that when the Ark had contained the Grail, the eyes had been an active security system, killing any who approached unless he wore a special garment that lay next to the Ark on the same table. It appeared that removing the Grail had deactivated the system.

  Sherev ran a hand along the top of the Ark of the Covenant. Even he who had grown cynical during his decades fighting Israel’s covert wars was touched by actually being in the presence of something so essential to his country’s faith. Even though he knew it was an Airlia artifact, he could still envision it being carried across the desert by his ancestors.

  Since recovering the Ark of the Covenant from the Mission, Sherev had spent much time reflecting on the faith his parents had raised him in. Sherev swallowed hard as the implications struck home with full force, here in the presence of the Ark. The Ark of the Covenant — but what covenant? Was Moses the man whom his countrymen believed in, or, as now appeared, someone very different? Had Moses been a Guide under the influence of an alien guardian, a pawn in the civil war between the factions? Or had he acted of his own free will? And even if he had, did it make any difference if the Ark was an Airlia artifact and his trip up Mount Sinai had not been to speak to God, but to speak with Aspasia’s Shadow?

  Sherev had seen many of his countrymen die for their faith even as he had killed those of other countries who’d fought for their beliefs. If all were lies—

  Sherev was startled as the phone on the wall near the door emitted an irritating buzz. Reluctantly he went over to it and lifted the receiver.

  “Sherev,” he snapped.

  “Sir.” He recognized the voice of his senior aide. “Intelligence reports that Jordanian, Syrian, and Egyptian forces are mobilizing.”

  Sherev was not surprised. The Iraqis and Iranians had been on full wartime footing since the moment it was announced that Saddam Hussein had been assassinated.

  “We have been ordered to prepare to go to stage three,” the aide continued. Sherev’s eyes went to the wall of the chamber, as if he could see into the next one, where the bombs rested. Stage three meant the warheads were to be moved to the surface in preparation for deployment to their various delivery platforms. In his years there they had never gone to stage three, not even during the Gulf War, when Saddam had fired Scuds at Israel. But again, Sherev was not surprised. Recent events were propelling the world into a path not seen since 1939.

  “And, sir—” The aide hesitated; making Sherev wonder what could be worse than the news he had just received.

  “Yes?”

  “Hasher Lakur is here.”

  Lakur was an influential member of Parliament and the one who had gotten the government to trade the thummin and urim to Al-Iblis — who they now knew was

  Aspasia’s Shadow — in exchange for Saddam’s assassination. It had been a deal with the devil that Sherev had opposed.

  “What does he want?” “The Ark.”

  Sherev turned back to the table on which the artifact rested. He didn’t need to ask. He knew why Lakur wanted it — as a symbol to the country, to unite them in the coming war. But it was an empty symbol, Sherev knew, both literally and figuratively.

  “He has authority from the Parliament to claim it,” the aide added.

  Sherev hit the open button and the vault door slowly swung wide. He could see soldiers in the corridor, already moving to get the nukes. He almost laughed from the insanity. Nuclear warheads and the legendary Ark of the Covenant. An interesting combination for Armageddon.

  CHAPTER 5: THE PAST

  Tunguska

  1908

  The scout ship had followed the previous ship’s trail for over four thousand Earth years. Time meant little to those who crossed the vastness of space, and especially the creatures inside the ship. Owing to their life span, they viewed time very differently from humans. Also, the crew had been in suspension for most of the journey. They remained in that state as the craft decelerated from interstellar speed, a process that took several years and a long orbit around the system’s star.

  The crew was awakened as the ship approached the inner planets. Knowing the first ship had disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of this star system, the crew maneuvered with more diligence. They picked up signs of civilization on the third planet and headed toward it.

  The scout ship entered the atmosphere of the third planet, searching for any sign of the first craft and scanning the civilization. It was passing above the world’s largest landmass when it was struck by an unexpected bolt of power from below and exploded.

  The craft was seriously damaged and the crew tried desperately to retreat to the safety of space, but to no avail. It lost altitude, screaming through the atmosphere over the planet’s largest landmass. An escape craft holding some of the crew popped out of one side, while a few members tried to bring the crippled scout in for a landing.

  They failed, and it smashed into the planet, the explosion devastating the countryside, on a scale not seen since meteors had hit the planet many millennia earlier.

  The escape craft raced around the planet, settling in to land underwater, as far away from the crash site as possible. Sensors on the fourth planet picked up the escape craft, but also the lack of any signal from the main ship before destruction.

  All went back to the status quo.

  In the submerged escape craft, the few survivors slowly began to study the planet on which they had landed, prepared to spend many years doing so before settling on a course of action.

  CHAPTER 6: THE PRESENT

  Easter Island

  Aspasia’s Shadow lay perfectly still. His eyes were closed and his chest was barely moving. His body was bathed in the golden light of the guardian. The Grail was on the table next to him.

  There were two things happening in the chamber.

  Kelly Reynolds’s wasted body was twitching and vibrating as her mind struggled to find a way to send out a message of warning and information. She had picked out the critical parts of Aspasia’s Shadow’s plan and knew she had to get the information out. And she was quite close to accomplishing that very thing.

  And at the end of Aspasia’s Shadow’s right arm, at the severed wrist, where raw flesh and bone met the air, there was a black-and-red foam bubbling up. And millimeter by millimeter, a new hand began to grow.

  Beijing, China

  The Chinese president held a videotape in his hand as he entered the hall of the National People’s Conference. The buzz among the delegates about the suddenly called Assembly fell away to respectful silence as the president made his way to the front of the hall.

  Just before he mounted the podium, he handed the video to a technician. He took his place behind the microphone.

  “The videotaped message I am about to show you was just received by my office. It was transmitted from Qian-Ling.”

  He gestured and the room went dim. The large screen behind him flickered. A short Chinese man in a golden robe appeared. Behind him was a seven-foot-tall alien with red cat eyes and red hair. There was absolute silence in the hall. The creature — an Airlia they knew from news reports from the West — b
egan speaking in a singsong voice. The man in front translated in Chinese.

  The speech went on for ten minutes but the summation was simple: join Artad or be his enemy. And Artad’s Shadow had been Shi Huangdi, the Yellow Emperor, the founder of China as they knew it. They had less than one hour to vote and make their decision.

  When the screen went blank the hall exploded in pandemonium.

  Area 51

  Turcotte cursed. A buzzing noise had been sounding for the last minute. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his SATPhone. He cocked his arm back to throw it away. He was about a hundred meters away from the runway, a kilometer away from Area 51 and still walking into the desert.

  Turcotte sat down in the sand. The phone continued to ring. Decades of training fought with his emotions. Discipline versus feeling. He flipped the phone open. “What?”

  “It’s Quinn. The Chinese have been issued an ultimatum by Artad. Join him or fight him. The Stennis and the Washington along with the Jahre Viking are headed toward Hawaii and the ships are shielded. The Navy’s tried attacking the Alien Fleet — as they’re calling it — and lost an attack sub in the process.”

  Turcotte lay on his back, staring up at the blue sky. His anger was gone. He felt so tired all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep. To forget about it all. “And? Nothing I can do about any of that.”

  “Kelly Reynolds has sent us a message. Text. Forwarded through Pearl to us.” Turcotte sat up straight. “Kelly?” The thought of the reporter stranded on Easter Island stirred him. She’d hoped the aliens could bring good to the human race and he knew that her current situation made him seem like a whining child. “Yes.”

  “How did she get it out?”

  “She piggybacked it via the guardian SAT-link to the fleet they’ve captured. I can display it on your phone.”