Atlantis: Gate (14 page)

“Thirty seconds.”

Stokes looked about the control center, proud of the professionalism of his crew as they went about their tasks.

“Twenty seconds,” his XO reported.

“Range three thousand and closing,” the radar man called out. “Target speed is forty-five knots and accelerating.”

“Ten seconds.”

Stokes noted that his sonar man had taken off his headset in precaution.

“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”

Stokes fingers dug into the arms of his command chair as he tensed. Nothing.

“Past one,” the XO reported, looking at the stopwatch.

“Radar, is the target still coming?” Stokes asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Approaching two. At two and—”the XO’s next words were cut off as an explosive wave swept over the
Connecticut
, immediately followed by another. A cacophony of sound hit the submarine as the final eleven mines went off one after another. A cheer broke out in the control center.

“Radar?” Stokes yelled, his voice cutting through the celebration.

Before the radar man could reply, the control center became pitch black, the cheers cut off as abruptly as the light.

“Battery power,” Stokes ordered.

Dim red lights came on, bathing the room in a much darker light. Stokes could tell by the feel of the ship that the engines had stopped.

“Contact is closing,” the radar man reported as soon as his system was back on line.

Dead in the water—a phrase no captain, whether he is on board a surface ship or submarine, wanted to hear. Stokes stood.

“XO, take the center.”

He could see the blood drain from his executive officer’s face. He was the only other man on board who was privy to their last ditch plan. There was no time for Stokes to comfort the man. He made his way forward, toward the cruise missile storage area. He could feel the eyes of crewmembers on him as he passed through compartments. They all knew the submarine was stopped and had heard the explosions. Stokes entered the storage area where a half-dozen Tomahawk cruise missiles rested in their bins.

“All systems are off-line, sir,” the chief petty officer in charge of the missiles reported as Stokes entered.

“Clear the area, chief,” Stokes ordered.

“Sir?”

“Clear the area.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The petty officer hustled his men out of the compartment. Stokes swung shut the hatch behind and dogged it closed.

He then went to a plastic case secured to the middle of the floor. He pulled a key from around his neck and unlocked the case. He paused as the ship shuddered, then canted to the left twenty degrees before halting. He’d seen the video of what had happened to the
Revelle
, the research ship taken in by the sphere and he knew his ship was now sharing the same fate.

He flipped open the lid, revealing a powerful array of batteries along with a laptop computer that was off. He pushed the on button for the computer, then took a lead from the case and went to the nearest missile. He attached the lead to a port on the side of the cruise missile, then went back to the laptop.

Stokes cursed when he saw that the computer hadn’t booted. All he had was a screen full of unintelligible lines of numbers and letters. He unhooked the computer and grabbed a clacker, similar to the one used for Claymore mines. He quickly screwed the wire into the clacker.

Stokes paused as he heard the sound of metal tearing, then screams coming from the center of the ship. He took a deep breath, then squeezed the clacker, sending a burst of power to the cruise missile.

He cursed when nothing happened.

Then a golden glow suffused the compartment and he collapsed.

CHAPTER 8 480 BC

It took the Phoenicians three and a half days to complete both bridges. It was an engineering feat the world had never seen before and would not see again for many hundreds of years. Despite that, Xerxes spared no thanks to the engineers and laborers. Even before the last plank was in place, he ordered his army forward, the lead scouts passing the engineers as they finished.

Thousands and thousands of troops moved forward, crossing from Asia into Europe. To the south, the hundreds of ships in the Persian navy set sail, covering the seaward flank of the massive army. The holds of the ships were full of supplies to keep the army fed and armed. It was the largest army and navy movement the Earth had ever known.

Xerxes remained perched on his throne on the eastern shore, watching his forces move. All the reports he had received were favorable. His emissaries had been well received in Thessalia. There would be no battle at Marathon unless the Athenians and Spartans moved north and even then his spies reported the city-states of Thessalia would remain neutral. His spies from Athens reported the city was locked in debate about what response to bring to bear against the Persians. Such debating had cost the Greeks Ionia and now it was to cost them half of their homeland. Many gods, many city-states, Xerxes found it hard to believe that Greece had managed to fend off Persian assaults for so long.

It appeared that his ploy of playing Sparta against Athens with the promise of peace was working. If all went well, Xerxes pondered, he might--

“Their heavy infantry.”

Xerxes turned in surprise toward Pandora. “What did you say?”

“Your generals, those who fought the Greeks at Marathon, they have been afraid to tell you the truth.” She waved a graceful hand, taking in the tens of thousands of troops visible to them. “You will outnumber the Greeks. But they will choose the place of battle.”

“You believe then that Sparta and Athens will not accept my offer?”

“Athens has considered it and continues to debate. Sparta will never consider it.”

“And if they choose the place of battle?”

“They will pick a place where their heavy infantry will have an advantage and your cavalry, archers and light auxiliaries will be largely ineffective.”

Pandora had never ceased to amaze Xerxes since she came to his court five years ago and this brief discourse on tactics was something none of his generals had bothered to do. The common opinion, as far as Xerxes had been able to determine, was that this war against the Greeks would be no different than the dozens of other wars they had fought in the past five years and won. Numbers would carry the day and victory would be his. Xerxes was aware enough to know that was what the generals had advised his father up until the debacle at Marathon.

“How do you know this?”

“I walk the camps at night, cloaked in a robe so no one can recognize me or tell I am a woman. I’ve listened to the Ionians and other Greeks, along with those of our allies who have fought the Greeks before. They fear the Spartans.”

Xerxes slammed a fist into the arm of his throne. “They will fear me first or I will have their heads decorating poles.”

“If you would take the time, my lord, to understand their fear, you will understand the Spartans.”

Xerxes spit. “The Spartans. The Spartans. I hear so many say the word with such reverence for such a little city. What can they field? Ten thousand men in arms at best? And half of that auxiliaries? No Greek army ever defeated us before. Marathon was a fluke.”

Pandora moved around until she was in front of Xerxes, between him and the vision of his magnificent army crossing the Hellesponte. Her words were like the beat of a ship’s rowing drum, hammering at him. “Listen to me great King and learn about your enemy. At birth a Spartan male child is judged by a committee of elders. Any who seem sickly are taken to a hillside and left there. Female children are judged only in terms of their value to bear warriors.

“When a boy turns seven he is taken from his family to live in a barracks called an agoge where he will spend all of his time up until he turns thirty. The training begins then and never ends. Even after they pass thirty, a Spartan considers his agoge his home much more than the place where his wife and children reside.

“As part of their rites of passage, each male Spartan teenager is sent into the woods to live with only their wits to guide them for two weeks. They are required to kill a helot—one of the near slaves who work for Sparta—with their bare hands or whatever weapon they can forge from the wild before they can return to the barracks. It is felt that no matter how severe their training, they must have the experience of taking a life with their own hands to move on.”

Xerxes’ hands were gripping the hands of his throne. He had watched the sack and rape of cities. The massacre of the inhabitants. The execution of those who he decided needed to die. But he had grown up in a palace, his every wish taken care of, any discomfort immediately resolved. What Pandora spoke of, he could not conceive. It was, for lack of a better way for him to view it, barbaric.

Pandora continued. “At age twenty a Spartan male becomes a citizen and even if he marries, he must remain in the barracks. When going off to battle Spartan wives and mothers admonish those men closest to them with the phrase: ‘On your shield or with it.’ They are either to come back carrying their heavy shield or be carried on it. Note that they do not say this about their sword or their spears. Do you know why the shield is so important?”

Xerxes said nothing.

“A Spartan who abandons his spear or sword only quits on himself. A Spartan who drops his shield exposes the man to his left to danger. That is the greatest disgrace and punishable by death.”

Xerxes tried not to be impressed. “Cold metal in the bowels kills everyone, including Spartans.”

Pandora moved forward slightly, so that she was even with the King, her eyes boring into his. “You have fought many battles, have you not, Lord?”

“Yes.”

“But, my lord, have you ever fought in the front line, face to face with the sharp points of the enemy’s weapons? That is where a Spartan king fights, from the front.”

Xerxes stood so abruptly, the closest Immortals started forward, weapons at the ready, believing their king to have been struck by a missile. He pulled a dagger from his belt and slashed. Pandora moved, but not quickly enough as the blade sliced flesh along the left side of her face.

She took a step back as he advanced. Two Immortals reached Pandora, grabbing her arms and holding them out from her sides, leaving her open for whatever fatal blow the King wished to deliver. Xerxes pressed the blade against her throat.

“Who are you?”

Pandora was trying hard not to swallow, as it felt as if even the smallest movement would sink the blade into her throat. “I’ve told you my name, lord.”

“Where are you from?” Xerxes pressed harder, bringing forth blood.

“I am Persian.”

“You lie. You didn’t even know our language when you arrived at my palace.”

“I do not lie!” she protested as she saw her pending death in his eyes. “It is not so much an issue of where I am from, my lord, but
when
.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Pandora spoke rapidly to forestall her death. “Think of the map I brought. Have you or your advisers ever seen the like? Where—when-- do you think that came from?”

Xerxes could see the two Immortals holding her exchange glances. First the bridge being destroyed, now the King’s strange woman saying even stranger things. He was tempted to slit her throat and be done with it. He fought back his anger. She had forewarned the Phoenicians about the need for more bridges. She had been right about that.

With a twitch of his hand, Xerxes indicated for the Immortals to let her go. He went back to his throne and sat down.

“So tell me where and when you are from,” he ordered.

“I am from Gordium.”

Xerxes had heard of the place but never been there. It had been the capital of Phrygia, which had been conquered by Croesus of Lydia, who in turn was conquered by Xerxes’ ancestors. Before he could dwell on this long, Pandora continued.

“I am descended from one of the Sybyls.”

Xerxes had also heard of the Sybyls. Oracles. Ten of them, who lived in caves and made predications. The Erythraean Herophile, a Sybyl, had predicted the Trojan War. The beginning of the war between east and west.

Because of his religion, Xerxes did not believe in Sybyls or Oracles. He consulted the Magi, priests of his religion, but even their advice he viewed with suspicion. They were, after all, only men.

“Which Sybyl?”

Pandora smiled. “The Hellespontine, of course.”

“Why did you not tell me this?” Xerxes asked. “I might have taken your warning on the bridge more seriously.”

“No, King, you wouldn’t have. You don’t trust anyone.”

“I am a King,” he said as if that explained everything. Xerxes pointed across the Hellesponte toward Europe. “And once we are there? What help can you give me?”

“That remains to be seen,” Pandora said.

“You said when was more important than where.”

“Sybyls live—”Pandora hesitated, then continued—“a timeless existence.”

“How can that be?”

“I cannot explain it to you, Lord.”

Xerxes shook his head. He could hear the clatter of thousands of hooves on wood as his main body of cavalry began crossing. He got off his throne and signaled for his men to begin breaking it down for travel.

“We cross. Now.”

**************

“We march west.”

Leonidas’s announcement was greeted with momentary silence by the assembled Spartan knights. It was considered bad form for someone to speak out immediately after the King spoke, an insult indicating the person was not taking the King’s words seriously enough to contemplate them for at least a little while.

Finally an old gray-beard rose to his feet. Polynices was a veteran of many wars and a general who had planned many campaigns. “And what of the Persians, my Lord? They come from the north and east.”

Leonidas had expected the question and could have been more verbose in his stated plan, but he had found it best to allow questions to be asked, to make the knights feel as if their input was essential in the plan that was to be followed. They were gathered outside the temple, the knights arrayed on the grassy slope looking down on their King. Leonidas had left Cyra at his home—even a priestess could not attend this assembly, it was for warriors only.