Atlantis: Devil's Sea (27 page)

“Send a courier after Cassius. When he completes this mission, I want him to go to Palestine and take command of the X Legion once more. He will finish what we started so many years ago.”

“Yes, Emperor.”

*****

A maniple was drawn up on the dock, assembled no doubt in response to the imperial guidon that flapped in the slight breeze from the mast. As the ship was tied up, Falco looked down on the troops with a critical eye. Their armor wasn’t polished but looked to be in good shape. The weapons were sharp and glittered in the sunlight, which was more important than bright armor. The eyes of the men were on the ship, wondering what fate was delivering them from Rome. Falco knew what thoughts were racing through their head: A recall? An expedition to be mounted against some real or imagined enemy of the empire? Simply an imperial envoy relaying normal orders? A new commander, perchance?

“They look functional,” Cassius said in a low voice.

Falco had relayed to the general the words of Centurion Attius.

“Yes, sir, they do.” But Falco could also see the looks in the eyes that peered back at him. No sign of fear or even respect. “However, if they get an order they don’t necessarily think is a good one…” Falco didn’t finish the thought, knowing that Cassius could see the same thing. Falco knew that most Roman officers would come in like a tornado, cracking the whip and using punishment to quickly take command, perhaps crucify a few men to make the point. He also knew that Cassius wasn’t like most Roman officers.

The gangplank was extended to the dock. Cassius walked to the opening in the railing and paused. This was where a speech should be made, from the higher position of the ship, looking down on the troops. Cassius walked down the ramp without a word, Falco behind him.

An officer was at the head of the maniple. The tribune laticlavius, Falco knew from the accoutrements the man wore, which meant he was the senior tribune, second in command of the legion. It was also a position that more often than not went to political appointees who needed some military time to round out their records before running for the senate, rather than a career military men.

The tribune raised his arm in salute. “Hail, envoy of the emperor.”
Cassius returned the salute and stopped right in front of the tribune. He extended the copy of orders that Titus had given him in Rome, ceding command of the legion to him. The tribune was a young man, his skin red from exposure to the sun, lines of sweat rolling down from underneath his highly polished helmet.

The tribune took them and unrolled the paper, quickly reading. His body stiffened, and he saluted once more. “Hail, General Cassius.” He lowered his arm and his voice so the men behind him wouldn’t hear. “This comes as a surprise, General. We had no word. If we had known, we would have prepared a more appropriate reception.”

“We traveled as quickly as any courier might have,” Cassius said, cutting him off. “You may dismiss the troops and take me to your headquarters.”
“Yes, sir.” He turned and issued orders to a centurion behind him, then turned back to face Cassius.

“Your name?’ Cassius asked.

The officer was flustered. “Marco Liberalius, General.”

“Tribune Liberalius, this is Centurion Falco.”

Falco snapped a quick salute at the senior officer, who returned it.

“Where is the commander?” Cassius asked.

“Legatus Flavius is, uh, sir, he is indisposed at the moment.”

“An interesting choice of words,” Cassius noted. He pointed toward the wooden stockade on the top of the hill overlooking the dock. “Shall we go?”

“There will be horses here in a few minutes,” Liberalius said. “My centurion is seeing to it.”

“I prefer to walk,” Cassius said. He headed toward the hill on which the large fort was perched, Liberalius hurrying to keep up with him, waving off his squire, who had approached with his horse. There were tents pitched outside the walls, along the low ground, something Falco found interesting. He estimated at least two-thirds of the legion was camped outside the fort, if he subtracted the usual number of patrols and outlying outposts that should be deployed about the region.

As they went up the dusty road, men came out of the tents to stare at them from a distance. Most of the soldiers were swarthy, with dark hair braided tightly against their skulls, definitely not Romans. There were also the usual camp hangers-on at the outskirts of the legion tents: whores, washerwomen, traders, gamblers. It is said wherever the Roman army camped for more than a night, a city sprang up.

Several legionnaires opened the gates to the fort, and they entered. Barracks were built along the inside of the walls, and a blockhouse was centered in the middle. The troopers who peered out of the inner barracks were predominantly Roman, Falco could tell, as if the commander was protecting himself from his own non-Roman troops, which might well be the case.

Liberalius hurried his step toward the blockhouse, getting in front of Cassius. “General, I should announce your arrival.”

“I think it has already been announced,” Cassius said as the door swung open and a man dressed in breeches and tunic, over which he had hastily thrown his robe fringed with red, appeared.

“Legatus Flavius,” Cassius nodded a greeting.

“General Cassius,” Flavius nodded in return, no love lost.

Liberalius extended the orders, and Flavius quickly read them. When done, he laughed. “You are welcome to my command, General. Or should I say Legatus Cassius? Most welcome. It’s about time Rome remembered to bring me home. I see there is a new emperor,” he added, indicating the scroll that Titus had signed and fixed his imperial seal to.

Knowing how Titus viewed the XXV Legion, Falco thought the legatus a bit naïve in the thought about returning home, but since Cassius said nothing, Falco stood mute.

“Your current strength?” Cassius asked. There were figures moving in the doorway behind Flavius, and several other tribunes appeared, a few of them staggering as if drunk.

“Strength?” Flavius turned and addressed one of his officers, relaying the question.

“Sixty percent,” the officer answered.

“Deployed?” Cassius snapped.

“We have two patrols out,” the officer said. “A century each.”

Falco was amazed at that. Only two patrols and no outpost? His mind had already done the math. A legion at 60 percent was slightly over three thousand men. Two deployed centuries was about two hundred men out in the field. Being on the edge of barbarian territory that was living very dangerously.

“Ah, only fifteen percent of our strength,” the officer added, “is from the original force.” A not-so-subtle way of telling Cassius how many of the men were Roman.

“It appears that fifteen percent is all gathered here inside the fort,” Cassius noted.

Flavius laughed once more, his face flushed. “Damn right. Can’t trust these provincials.
“You may depart on the imperial courier ship that brought me,” Cassius told Flavius, then he pointed at the tribunes one by one. “And the rest of you are relieved and will depart also.”

Falco could see the shock on their faces as Cassius walked forward, brushing by Flavius. Falco followed closely behind. They entered the blockhouse, the interior of which was dimly lit. It stank of wine and sweat and the stale odor of sex.

“Throw open the windows,” Cassius ordered, and Falco hurried to do so. He paused as he noted two figures huddled under blankets on low-lying couches: women, naked under the blankets. From their skin and hair, he knew they were locals.

“Get them some clothes, give them some money, and apologize to them on behalf of the Roman army,” Cassius barked.

“Yes, General,” Falco said.

“Then summon all the centurions, along with the Liberalius fellow. And bring Kaia up from the boat.

“Yes, General.”

Cassius held up a hand, causing Falco to pause before carrying out the tasks. “We march at dawn tomorrow. We do not have much time.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
HE
P
RESENT

Loomis was seated in the pilot’s seat, Colonel Shashenka in the copilot’s with a link to the gun turret and targeting screens in front of him. Dane and Ahana were behind them, watching over their shoulders at the video monitors that showed what was outside. They were still on the deck of the
Grayback
, but it was submerging, and they could see the ocean wash over the gray metal in front of the Crab. Soon the water reached the Crab and began climbing up its side until they were submerged, going down with the submarine.

“Releasing umbilicals and locks to the
Grayback
,” Loomis announced. He flipped a switch, and the Crab shuddered. “We’re on our own.”

With one hand, Loomis pushed forward on the throttle while with the other he turned them toward the north. “Under way,” he said.

“How long until we reach the gate?” Dane asked.

“Five minutes until hold position,” Loomis answered. “We’re going to stand off at one kilometer and wait until Professor Nagoya opens our doorway.”

Dane glanced at a monitor above and to the right. It showed the view the camera strapped to Rachel’s back. The Crab appeared briefly as Rachel turned toward them, then an empty ocean view as she turned on a parallel course, indicated by the small red symbol on the master display set in the console between Loomis and Shashenka. The Russian’s hand was on the butt of the pistol in the holster attached to his belt, an unconscious gesture that Dane knew indicated the man’s feelings.

Dane could feel the darkness of the gate looming ahead.

*****

Nagoya was surprised to see that his hands were shaking. All the years he had spent theorizing and studying the gates had not prepared him for this moment, when he would actually attempt to open one. He sat in front of the computer, in what was normally Ahana’s position, staring at the screen, trying to hide his trembling hands from Foreman, who was seated next to him.

“We still have a fix on both probes,” Nagoya said.

“The Crab is in position.” Foreman had a laptop open on his lap, the data from the Crab and Rachel being relayed to him via satellite link.

Beneath their feet, the FLIP extended over two hundred meters into the ocean, ending at the muon receiver that Nagoya had rigged to also project.

“Everything is ready,” Nagoya said. He had only a hope that this theory would work, a most unsettling feeling for a scientist. He was used to proving a theory with experimentation before committing himself to it, but here he was not only putting his reputation on the line but the lives of the people in the Crab and beyond that, the fate of the planet.

“Muonic activity?” Foreman asked.

“Nothing unusual.”

“Do it.”

Nagoya hit the Enter key, and the program began running.

From the bulb on the bottom of the FLIP, a stream of muons began flowing in the direction of the first probe.

*****

We’ve got a path,” Ahana said. Her screen showed a red line across their position and cutting into the dark triangle in front of them. “Follow it,” she told Loomis as she superimposed it on his video display.

The craft began moving, following the line of muons.

Dane’s hands grabbed the arms of his seat, and a line of sweat trickled down his forehead. His temples throbbed as they approached the gate. In the midst of all that pain, though, he could sense Rachel alongside, swimming less than ten feet off their starboard side. Her presence was like a light in the darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He would have thought it would get easier, this third trip into the gate, but this was the worst.

“One hundred meters to the gate,” Ahana announced. “All electromagnetic systems to minimum.”

The lights inside dimmed, and only three screens glowed: the forward video, Ahana’s computer, and the feed from Rachel. But Dane saw more than that. The gate was a presence, the limits of which he could feel. And he could also see the line of muons that the FLIP was projecting, punching into that darkness.

“Fifty meters,” Ahana said.

“A little to the right,” Dane said.

The pilot glanced over his shoulder, but Dane’s eyes were closed.

“Do it,” Ahana ordered. She looked at her screen. “Ten meters. Eight. Six. Four, Two. Contact.”

Dane felt the entry into the gate like hitting a pool splayed out from the high jump. His entire body jerked, spasmed, then he forced himself to focus. Rachel was in front of them now.

“We’re in the gate,” Ahana said. “I’ve lost the line to the portal!”

“I see it,” Dane said, eyes still closed. “Steady as we’re going.”

*****

“We’ve got the Chernobyl probe,” Nagoya said. Foreman had lost the feed from the Crab as soon as it entered the gate. Whether that was from the gate’s effect or the craft’s power-down, he didn’t know. He was behind Nagoya now, watching.

“Linking power,” Nagoya said as the program went to the next phase. The muon line that had been going from the FLIP to the first probe now made another jump to the Chernobyl probe.

“There’s the portal,” Nagoya tapped the screen. “I’m boosting power.

*****

“Rachel has the portal located,” Dane said. “She’s on the muonic trace Nagoya is projecting.” The dolphin was in front of them, swimming slowly, allowing them to keep pace.

“How far ahead?” Loomis asked.

“I can’t tell distance,” Dane said. “All I know is that we’re closing on it.”

“We need to stop just short of it,” Loomis said.

From what Dane was picking up from Rachel, the portal was a sphere space in the center of the gate. The dolphin was getting echoes back from it and other objects in the water, none close so far.

“There are other things out there,” Dane said.

“What things?” Ahana asked.

“Living things.” Dane remembered the krakens that had attacked the
Glomar
. Rachel was swimming faster, sensing the other objects. “Pick up speed,” Dane told Loomis.

Something was closing on them from the right, swimming fast. Dane could sense Rachel’s fear, but still the dolphin led them toward the portal.

Dane had been watching Loomis pilot the Crab. The controls were simple: a wheel that when rotated turned them left and right, when pressed in, they dove, and when pulled back, they went up. A throttle, much like an airplane’s, controlled their speed.