The Alignment Ingress (10 page)

“Oh, he’s going to come after us,” Hank said, looking at the speedometer. “Can’t push her any faster. I’m going to have to call in some bird dropping to slow Zawas down.”

After seeing off Yeats and Johnson, Colonel Zawas immediately went to his private library where Omar was examining one of the gold bricks Johnson had delivered.

“Well?” he demanded.

“It’s been refined to 18 karats, and we can further refine it to a pure 24 karats,” Omar told him excitedly. “But this gold didn’t come from Fort Knox or the Federal Reserve. It was created.”

“Created?” Zawas repeated.

“By some ancient alchemy,” Omar explained. “I suspect from the same black minerals that the Scottish Mason described in his journal here.”

Omar glanced at the leather journal on the ancient Egyptian funerary table beside him.

Zawas said, “Then for your sake I hope that tracking chemical you pumped into Yeats’ bloodstream works, and that he doesn’t simply lead us to Washington, D.C.”

“Yeats won’t return to his father,” Omar promised. “He and Johnson will lead us straight to the mines your family has been searching for ever since your forefathers accompanied James Bruce on his digs.”

Zawas, who was as secular as they came in modern Egypt, picked up Bruce’s journal with the same reverence he would tender the Koran if he were a religious man. The worn leather felt rich in his hands, but something about its weight was different. He took a closer look and suddenly realized it wasn’t the journal of James Bruce after all but a selection of verses from the Book of the Dead taken from the open slot he now saw on his bookshelves.

“Yeats!” he cried out as a hellfire missile hit the villa, collapsing the side of the library by the windows and scattering papyrus and scrolls to the desert wind.

Omar dove for cover over his gold brick as shattered glass and dust rained down. But Zawas ran straight toward the blown-out window, the white drapes twisting in the breeze, and looked out in time to see the glint of the American drone soar away. He could hear the villa’s alarms blaring and the rumble of his two antiaircraft batteries on the roof shooting fire into the empty skies.

His aide burst into the library with a shout, “Colonel! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine!” Zawas brushed the broken bits of glass from his uniform and then felt a trickle along his cheek. He touched his hand to it and saw blood. “Tell the men at the forward base to prepare to move out.”

“Yes, sir!” the aide saluted and left.

Zawas turned to the cowering Omar. “Get up, you fool! If Yeats has the journal, he’s probably already figured out what we couldn’t. We have to track him to the mines and then kill him. Once we control Ada’s mines, we and the world will never have to fear the Americans again.”

Luizi Crater

Congo

H
ank abandoned his ATV in the bush and joined Conrad at the edge of a boulder field that rimmed the crater like a bull’s-eye. The old journal that Conrad stole from Zawas had turned out to be invaluable. In no time Hank matched the Mason’s drawing of the Queen of Sheba’s circular “abyss” to the Luizi Crater in the Congo, a few hundred miles from the portal he had activated only days before.

The portal and the crater had to connect somewhere underground, and that somewhere had to be the Queen of Sheba’s mines.

Satellite overheads, meanwhile, revealed the zigzag bridge over the abyss to be, in fact, a deep gorge cut along the floor of the crater—a natural trench much like the man-made passageway Conrad had followed into Ada’s tomb in Nubia. This gorge, if Hank was right, would lead them to the hidden entrance to her mines—and the all-time mother lode of exotic matter, maybe even Conrad’s so-called Pillars of Creation.

Probably one and the same.

Hank started across the cracked terrain toward the crater’s impact cone, a natural dome formed by the gigaton blast. Domes usually blew off in a titanic mushroom cloud. But for some reason this one didn’t. “What do you make of this, Doctor Yeats?” he asked, but got no answer.

He turned around and saw Conrad crouched down with his ear to the ground, M16 rifle on his back, listening intently to the rolling savanna beyond the crater rim that rose around them. “We’re being followed.”

“No surprise,” Hank said, pulling out his Nexus phone and clicking away in code. “I’ve got a strong suspicion that the boys from Strategic Explorations are all over this site. I did my homework on them. What Smith is to sadism, Chen is to diabolical genius. They make a great team. Ten to one they’ve figured out the Sheba map as well, and the Zawas boys aren’t far behind.”

Conrad stood up. “What makes you think that?”

“You’re emitting enough tracking signal to power a small radio station,” Hank said, peering down into his phone while shielding it from sunlight.

Conrad rubbed his arm with the needle tracks. “Might have shared that bit of intel with me earlier, Hank.”

“Didn’t want to make you feel conspicuous, and there’s no way to get rid of it without bleeding you dry. The signal will fade in a week or two on its own. Besides, if we can get the goons from Zawas and Strategic Explorations shooting at each other, the red-on-red conflict might save our asses.”

Conrad nodded. “And since both groups think we know more than they do, we’re safe until we get to the end. Unless, of course, this Chen guy already found the mines, in which case they’ll start shooting as soon as they see us. But that will let us know we’ve found what we’ve been looking for.”

“Exactly.”

The words were barely out of his mouth when a chopper rose from behind the volcano cone and darted across the crater.

“Looks like they spotted the Zawas brothers,” Hank said. “Better make a run for it before they spot us too.”

Conrad scrambled across a few meters of boulders and dropped into the bottom of a jagged crack in the earth—the zigzagging bridge across the abyss from the drawing in the old Mason’s journal. It was about three meters deep and getting deeper as it headed toward the impact cone.

He bolted down the dried-up runoff gorge, Hank close behind. The sandy floor was studded with oddly shaped rocks. He heard a high-pitched whine and looked up in time to see a rocket streak overhead. The distant explosion came a moment later, followed by the cackling static of automatic fire.

“Smith’s SE guys fired the rocket,” Hank reported. “Zawas and his troops fired back.”

“And we’re in the crossfire,” Conrad shouted over his shoulder. “Maybe this red-on-red idea of yours wasn’t so hot.” As he ran on, head down, his eyes picked up flashes in the riverbed below. “Hank, look. Gold dust. Hell, more than dust—nuggets!”

“C’mon Conrad, this is small-time. Let’s get to the dome before somebody wins up there.”

But Conrad was transfixed. He stumbled over a rock and fell to one knee. He picked up an egg-sized nugget. “Look at it, Hank! She didn’t even have to mine. No wonder we couldn’t find any trails, towns or mining camps around the crater.”

“I get it,” said Hank. “This isn’t a gold mine, it’s a gold farm. Now keep moving.”

They came to a pile of the odd stones that had built up near the edge of the dried riverbed. Each individual stone, upon closer inspection, vaguely resembled a foot or a hand. Cumulatively, they looked like a pile of body parts or shattered sculptures.

Conrad, surprised at his revulsion, spoke like a scientist. “Human anatomical shapes.”

“Statues?” Hank asked.

“No.” Conrad reached down and picked up a piece, which crumbled in his hand. “I’ve never seen statues like this before. Not made of such a fragile substance. How could you sculpt it?”

Hank carefully studied a chunk of it. “The rock isn’t indigenous to the area. Must have been brought in.”

“It wasn’t brought in,” Conrad said. “It walked in. These are fossilized somehow, like the bodies at Pompeii after the volcano erupted.” He held up what appeared to be a horribly mutated hand with a reptilian look to it and webbing between the fingers. “What the hell could do that to a living thing?”

“It's a transmutation,” Hank said flatly.

Conrad said, “Well, whatever morphed this poor bastard happened while he was alive.”

“Maybe it was the pulverizing force of your Great Flood,” Hank said.

Conrad wasn’t sure if Hank was being serious or poking fun.

“Not all of the water would have returned to the oceans,” Hank went on. “Some it had to go somewhere else. Like this crater and gorge, flowing into the deep recesses of the earth like a massive drain.”

Conrad could see it. “The countless bodies of an entire civilization.”

“Yeah,” said Hank. “Had to wash away somewhere.”

The characteristic whoosh of a hand-held surface-to-air missile split the air like the amplified sound of duct tape ripping.

“QW-1 infrared homing missile from the sound of it,” Hank reported. “Well within its five-kilometer range and below its four-kilometer ceiling.”

The first exploding sound was a sonic boom that shook the pile of stones before them, sending some bouncing to the ground where they shattered.

Then came another explosion, followed by the chunky thwack of dying machinery and the growl of a helicopter engine. A shiny object whirled out of control about ten meters overhead, and Conrad looked up to see the contorted face of the screaming pilot for just an instant before he disappeared and a nearby blast concussed the air.

A breath of flame licked over the top of the natural trench as Conrad raced Hank to the impact dome.

“This is it,” Conrad said, breathing hard. “What do you think we are going to find in there? Interior Petra? Lebeaux? My antediluvian Pillars of Creation?”

Hank said, “Blofeld’s lair in ‘You Only Live Twice.’”

Conrad stared at Hank. His deadpan humor seemed to come out at the strangest moments. “You sure you have a PhD?”

“I’m sure,” Hank said. “Let’s go.”

Hank never expected to march into the Queen of Sheba’s city through a giant “gate of the gods” like those in Nimrod or Babylon with winged griffins. But he also didn’t think that he and Conrad would have to slither on their stomachs through a culvert into the pit of hell.

Hank dropped through the pitch black into a much larger space beneath the crater than he had imagined. Rappelling down his line, he looked up at the tiny hole he and Conrad had squeezed through. It was a pinprick of light now, a remote star in a cold universe.

“This is humongous,” Conrad whispered from the void. “It would take a massive amount of water to hollow out this much earth. Billions upon billions of gallons over many years. I’d hate to be down here in a monsoon.”

“Why?” Hank asked.

“Because this probably functions like some gigantic underground reservoir. You know, like the man-made ones under Hong Kong that collect all the runoff when hurricanes hit. That’s how they fare better with storm surges than Manhattan, which doesn’t have any. Can you imagine what’s collected at the bottom of this?”

“Yeah,” said Hank. “All the sins of the world, if your antediluvian theories are true.”

All the way down to the bottom of the pit, Hank scanned for any signs of Strategic Explorations’ men. But he found nothing.

“Where do you think they went?” Conrad said, as if reading his mind.

“Probably deeper into the mine,” Hank said, switching on his brights.

Metallic stalactites hung from everywhere in perfect natural elegance. It was like they were standing in the St. Peter’s Basilica of Nature, all the way down to the gilding on the columns. The black rock and gold ore together made the cavern a magnificent shrine.

“Rare earth minerals,” Conrad said in awe as he studied the protuberances.

“Something transmuted the living rock into liquid metal. I’m entering this as a prime candidate for the Queen of Sheba’s gold mines, AKA what history commonly mislabels King Solomon’s mines.”

“Or the inspiration for hell.” Conrad was pointing to a metal-splattered petro-form, just like the pile of anthropomorphic stones they had seen at the bottom of the gorge. “Maybe what transmutes this black ore into gold also transmutes humans.”

That would be unfortunate, Hank thought. But it could explain a lot about the Queen of Sheba.

Hank and Conrad unclipped from their rappelling rigs and set out on foot to search the cavern. The walls were far beyond the reach of their puny lights, and all Hank could hear besides their steps was something like a whisper in the still air. It almost felt like the crater itself was breathing.

“Over here,” Conrad’s voice called out, breaking the silence.

“Keep it down,” Hank told him when he found him by a cavern wall. The wall was blackened with some sort of dank substance, sticky and decaying, refusing to reflect almost any light at all.

Conrad lowered his voice and said, “I’ve been in a lot of tombs and caves in my time, and I’ve never seen anything like this.”

Hank looked closely at the blackened goo that coated everything down here. It wasn’t oil or soot. It was something else, and it was trickling down the walls and seeping up from the rock floor.

“Eureka, Hank.” Conrad’s light hit on something further down the wall—a temple façade carved right into the rock.

Hank followed the wall to two thick and brooding pillars. The pillars held up a massive arch, through which he could see a small rotunda and two tunnels that presumably led to the mines.

“Your Pillars of Creation, Conrad?”

“No,” Conrad said, bathing the ebony columns with light. “These have no inscriptions. But maybe we’ll find them down below. I think we’ve found your ingress to the Queen of Sheba’s mines.”

Hank noticed huge gold hinges along the sides of the arch. “You see this, Conrad? I think there were doors here once.”

“Giant doors.” Conrad pointed his light to a massive bronze bolt on the ground just beyond the pillars. “Look at the size of that thing. It’s as thick as a tree. Must have been used to the lock the doors, to keep people out of the mines.”

Bending down, Hank wrapped both hands around the bolt as best he could and tried to lift it. But it wouldn’t budge. “This thing weighs a ton. I can only imagine the doors.” Hank then stood up and looked at the big bolt slider hole in the wall. An epiphany hit him, and it wasn’t a terribly pleasant one.