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Authors: Stel Pavlou

BOOK: Decipher
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“At minus fifty degrees C,” Matheson explained, “rubber tires would shatter like glass. A non-adapted metal chassis would snap like a twig. When you get down to those sorts of temperatures, all the rules change. Materials start to act very differently. An ordinary gun would explode if you tried firing. At minus fifty degrees C,” he added darkly, “it's impossible to run. The ground is frozen solid to a depth of eight feet. At minus sixty degrees C unless you cover your face it's impossible to breathe. And when your breath does hit the air it turns instantly to ice crystals—what Siberians call ‘the whispering of the stars.'”
Scott eyed Dower anxiously. “You're covered for this, right?”
“The Marine Expeditionary Force has all the right gear, Professor. With long-range naval support and air superiority, it shouldn't be a problem.”
Gant ran a finger across the vehicles on the screen again.
The sky was sharp powder blue, the sun strong and vibrant.
Hackett sat upright. “The sky—it's blue. The Aurora must be in a stable period.”
But Gant was interested in something else on the screen. Something much more immediate. “There's five Swedish-made BV 206 all-terrain vehicles. One of 'em, look, that's obviously radar. The rest are troop-carriers. And there's a couple of British-made Leyland Medium Mobility Carrier DROPS vehicles.” He caught another curious look from Matheson. “Demountable Rack Off-loading and Pick-up System. Add a coupla Russian BMP-3 infantry fighting vehicles and a Bofors/Hägglunds CV9040 combat vehicle. Christ, there's gotta be more stuff on the way. I think they're still building up.”
“What makes you say that?” the Admiral probed.
“There's too much variety in their vehicle choice. Something goes wrong on one of those things you're gonna need spare parts. If it's a small operation you opt for uniformity.”
“Makes sense.”
Scott was awestruck. “My God,” he said. “It really is a war zone over there.”
“That's what you're facing when you get there, Dr. Scott, yes,” the Admiral confirmed.
Scott shifted uncomfortably in his seat as an insistent tiny red arrow flashed on the screen. It had been intriguing Matheson, but he'd said nothing until Gant finally was in a mood to respond to it.
He ordered SaRGE to zero in on the target in question, which turned out to be 2,000 feet up. The Chinese had placed a command station on the top of the Razor.
“They clearly don't want anyone coming through that pass after them,” Matheson commented. “Jesus, they have 360-degree visibility.”
“Move in closer,” Dower rapped out. “Let's see what kind of radar and EW systems they got.”
The clearer image was an eye-opener. There were satellite communications dishes. Radar masts. An array of antenna—anti—aircraft guns and long-range artillery all anchored by carbon-fiber cables and hooked up to solar panels. There was a hut. Windbreaks. And there were two Chinese soldiers, Commandos or some kind of special forces, one of
whom was operating his equipment a little too well, because he had his eye firmly on SaRGE, and was smiling and waving to the camera.
Dower blinked in rage and frustration. “Motherfucker,” he said.
It wasn't what anyone had expected to hear from an Admiral.
Dower was on his feet. Being passed around the table were individually labeled documents. They bore the names of the people who had to sign them. They were release forms, temporarily signing over their services to the United States government, as stark-looking as the white continent itself.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dower announced, “I urge you to be very sure about what it is you are doing. You are about to embark on a journey that will take you to the most ferocious and inhospitable landscape on Planet Earth. It will not be like any part of this planet you've ever been to before. There will not be a single tree or shrub. Nor a blade of grass. There certainly will not be a 7-Eleven just around the corner because there are no corners. You will be expected to adhere to the strictest guidelines. And your actions will have profound consequences. We do not wish to provoke a war with the Chinese, despite what you may think, but we will be prepared to fight one. And war in Antarctica would just about be the most hellish thing imaginable.
“You were all selected because of your experience, knowledge and expertise in your fields. And so I ask you, as a servant of the United States of America, to think very carefully before putting pen to paper. For the task ahead is not an easy one.”
No one hesitated.
Everyone signed.
It was a polished steel container. Square, with very few markings or embellishments. It hissed as the locks were popped and the pressure equalized within. Bringing the case over to the table, Gant carefully lifted the lid and displayed the neatly arranged shards of Carbon 60. The stones glowed with an iridescence that seemed to feed off the ambient lighting in the room. Scott peered in at them, and could clearly see the writing etched across their surfaces.
“This,” Dower explained, “is what all the fuss is about.”
Scott almost giggled like a child as he gently lifted one of the rocks from the container. “My fingers—they're tingling. This stuff feels weird.”
“Mankind's greatest and newest invention over the past decade has been the production of the Carbon 60 fullerene. It's financed by the Defense Department, but our best minds can only produce it by the gram. The piece you have in your hand is worth a quarter of a million U.S. dollars. Atlantis represents billions upon billions of tons of the stuff.”
“So should you have to blow the crap out of the most eagerly sought archeological site known to man, the fact that the debris will be worth millions must be a comfort?” Hackett prodded indelicately.
Dower ignored him. “So you see, Dr. Scott, you find yourself in a unique position. Your knowledge of flood mythology and your ability to decode ancient languages is unparalleled. Combined with the fact that our best twenty-first-century minds have difficulty doing what our ancestors could do standing on their twelve-thousand-year-old heads—manufacture and manipulate Carbon 60—you might say we have an unusual situation. One where science, language and history are forced to work together.”
A buzzer interrupted. Gant thumbed a wall switch next to the screen, and gave a terse: “What?”
“Gentlemen, we're ready to repeat the test,” a tinny voice announced. “If you'd care to come to the windows and don't forget to put on your goggles.”
Tinted safety goggles were hurriedly passed around as everyone did as they were told and moved to the windows for a good view of the experiment below. Scott took the chunk of C60 with him and Matheson watched as he ran his fingers over the etchings, almost like a blind man reading Braille.
“What's going on?” November asked quietly, edging closer to Major Gant.
“Pure Carbon 60 is a yellowish-brown color. This stuff is bright blue, so it has to have something else in with it,” Gant told her. “Maybe pure diamond—that's blue.”
“So what're they gonna do?” She was struggling with her goggles. Gant took them out of her hands, made the elastic headband wider and fitted them in place.
“Okay?” he asked gently. November nodded.
“What they're gonna do,” Hackett said, digging his hands into his pockets and having absolutely no trouble at all with his own goggles, “is put a piece of that rock into a chamber, fire up the most powerful laser in the world, blast that sucker to atoms, and study the residue. Then they'll know what it's made of.”
Bright yellow warning lights suddenly flashed. Klaxons whirred and the countdown began. But Scott wasn't concerned with what was outside the window. He was concerned with what was in his hand. Could it really be? He turned back to the screen. The city under the ice. The overall layout could be simplified down to two distinct images. A series of concentric circles cut into quarters by a large cross. It was an ancient symbol, which Scott knew well. And as he held the crystal up to compare it, he couldn't deny the exact same symbol was also etched onto the crystal. Concentric circles and a cross.
His gut told him he was right. But could it be? This was an unknown language. Was it really that simple? He realized he was being watched and glanced over to share a nervous smile with Matheson, who fidgeted with anticipation, like he was waiting for the results of a blood test.
“This is the symbol,” Scott said, “for the sun.”
Awed, Ralph repeated: “The symbol for the sun?”
The klaxons whirred once more. And the entire room was flooded with light.
[Out] of 6 million years, only 100,000 [fossilized species] may be represented by surviving strata. In the unrecorded 5.9 million years there is time for even advanced civilizations to have come and gone, leaving hardly a trace.
 
Michael A. Cremo and Richard L. Thompson,
Forbidden Archeology,
1996
“What the fuck is this?” Maple spat as he jumped down from the prow of the dilapidated shallow-bottomed scow they'd hired back in Iquitos, its blue paintwork chipped and faded. He was up to his ankles in muddy water and floating debris—leaves and shit from the jungle floor, so thick and tangled that he couldn't for a moment figure out if the twisted knots of tubing up ahead were snakes or vines. Partially submerged, they bobbed in the water at the base of some huge tree.
He shook out one lizardskin boot and adjusted his Panama hat. The tail of a yellow, red and blue woolen twirl hung down the back of it and swung back and forth by his neck. He pulled out his Beretta and slammed in a clip. Over his shoulder Carver emerged from the filthy tarp that clung to the aluminum and cane frame, under which the others sat guarding supplies.
Carver thumbed through the digital map on his GPS notepad and waved it as evidence. “According to this,” he said, “we should be two miles inland.”
Maple chewed his tobacco, spat a lump out and fished for some more. “It's flooded then. The whole goddamn basin's flooded.”
“We can't pull out now. We ordered the drop three hours ago.”
“The drop can be moved,” said a voice from inside the boat. Clambering out and blowing thick blue cigar smoke was Jack Bulger, wearing a camouflage jacket and tapping an old-fashioned paper map. “Radio the plane,” he instructed. “Tell them to drop the gear two miles farther north.”
Carver didn't move. Waited for the okay from Maple, who chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Yeah, radio the plane,” he said.
Carver did what he was told without comment, checking the density of the deep green overhead leafy canopy before thumbing the transceiver and broadcasting the message.
There were complaints from the pilots. Pilots always complained, but Carver didn't give a fuck about their fuel load. They could land somewhere else on the way back home.
Maple jammed his fingers into, his mouth and let out an earsplitting whistle. “We walk from here!”
His team numbered eight. And they weren't hot on conversation—which was good. He'd hired them across the border. They were Western mercenaries working in Colombia, each with a good reputation and few ties to permanent work. And for once the pay from an oil company was better than the drug cartels.
Yes, Rola Corp. was paying handsomely for this little trip.
The two
madeireiros
, or lumberjacks, who'd hired them the boat and served as guides upriver, whispered to each other anxiously. Pointing to the water, pointing to the sky. The color of the vegetation. Since Maple could speak neither Aymara nor Quechua their comments were incomprehensible. Spanish he could deal with, but they rarely spoke Spanish.
“They're nervous,” Carver said with a little understatement. “They think the spirits are against us. They think maybe the Jaguar has returned to destroy the earth.”
“The Jaguar?”
Carver shrugged. “That's what they say.”
“It's not the Jaguar,” Maple scoffed.
The
madeireiros
helped with the packs and loaded the men up, which was foolish really, because in the end, their first instinct to just set the boat in reverse and go would have been the best move.
Instead, Maple grinned like a shark. He patted one of the guides on the back of the neck in a friendly manner and made like he was fishing for money. But the grip around the man's neck quickly tightened, and the money was actually his Beretta.
“Thank you, Possuelo,” Maple said with some affection before leveling the barrel between the man's eyes and blowing his brains out.
The stunned expression on Possuelo's face sank beneath the muddy water.
His friend screamed and bolted into the jungle, but was brought down by a second bullet.
“No need to worry about the Jaguar now, my friends,” Maple added. “But I'm afraid we cannot be followed.”
“I'm not sure that was wise,” Carver said.
“Let me worry about how wise it was.”
“The Machiguenga Indians,” Carver insisted. “They'll know we're here.”
“Good,” Maple snarled arrogantly. “I hate the element of surprise. It takes all the fun out of the slaughter.” He thumbed at a junior to take point along the trail. Pulled his collar up, searched the sky through the branches of the trees and said: “Looks like rain.”
They moved on, hacking their way through the undergrowth. Within thirty minutes the hairs on the back of every man's neck stood on end. Shadows were glimpsed, movement spotted. And the hunt was on. For a fraction of a moment or two it wasn't quite clear just who was being hunted. But as they all took up a defensive ring posture and shot their first attacker, right through his hairless red chest, it was clear Maple was going to get his way.
He pulled out a GPS device, black and oblong, like a book. Raised the aerial and zeroed in on something on the horizon of more concern to him than the rapid gunfire being loosed all around. As the battle cries of the Machiguenga doubled in number and arrows started whizzing past, Maple remained unfazed, continuing to track the signal until the target came into view.
Through the trees in the distance, rising up out of the horizon was a jungle-covered rise. Kind of like a mountain, but too regular in shape. Triangular maybe. Or pyramid-shaped.
“Bingo.” He handed the device to Bulger, who was crouching by his heel and wincing every time a shot was squeezed off. “Here,” he said. “You can call home now.”
Bulger keyed the sat-phone on the side of the device. Waited for the ringing and hit speakerphone at the pick-up.
“Hello?”
“Rip, is that you?”
“No,” came the measured response. “This is Houghton. Rip's gone to Cairo.”
“Afternoon, Jay. This is Bulger. We're in position.”
“Situation secure?”
Bulger jammed a finger in his ear as Maple leveled the gun over his head and picked off another target. He watched with some satisfaction as the Indian's guts spewed out his back.
“Yes, I believe so,” he replied. “What about you? Did the military buy it?”
There was a chortle on the line. “Hell yeah, they bought it. In fact, we're just discussing strategy right now. We'll have to persuade them not to go nuclear though. Morons. Radioactive Carbon 60 isn't worth shit.”
“Be careful,” Bulger warned. “They may be dumb, but they're not stupid.”
“Don't worry,” Houghton said. “There will only be one company that controls the world's supply of Carbon 60. And one way or another, it
will
be Rola Corp.”

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