The Eye of God (29 page)

“In Mongolia,” Gray said.

He had already debriefed with Kat and was relatively up to speed in regard to events surrounding the crashed satellite.

“I need an honest assessment,” Painter said. “Are you and Kowalski fit enough to continue?”

Gray glanced over at Kowalski, who merely shrugged and picked up another slice of bacon.

“I think
fit enough
pretty much describes us,” Gray answered. “But a little more sleep en route, and we’ll be even better.”

“Good, then I wanted to show you this.” Painter turned to Kat.

She shifted into view, still tapping at the keyboard with one hand while staring at him. “I’m going to patch you in with Lieutenant Josh Leblang, out of McMurdo Station.”

“In Antarctica?”

“That’s correct. He’s with a recon crew about a hundred klicks out from the base, on the Ross Ice Shelf.” Kat punched a few more keys and spoke into a microphone by her chair. “Lieutenant Leblang, can you show us again what you found? Walk us through what you saw?”

A sputtering response reached Gray that sounded vaguely affirmative.

Then the screen cleared and was replaced with the face of a young man in a military parka. He had his hood thrown back, apparently enjoying the bright morning of an Antarctic summer. He wore a woolen cap over his short dark hair, his cheeks reddened from the cold, or maybe flushed from excitement.

From the shaky image, someone was filming him with a handheld camcorder. He spoke while walking backward up a ridge.

“About two hours ago, we saw five huge fireballs shoot over McMurdo. Thought it was a missile attack. The sonic booms—one after the other—had the entire base scrambling. My team was sent out to investigate. This is what we found.”

He reached the top of the ridge and stepped aside. The cameraman moved forward, the image jangling wildly. Once he stopped and steadied his hand, a hellish landscape came into clear focus.

Across the expanse ahead, massive craters pocked the blue ice, roiling with steam, blackened at the edges. Gray pictured the five meteorites punching through the ice and melting in the sea three hundred meters below. He spotted men, small black ants, moving on the ice, likely a part of Leblang’s crew. They offered perspective as to the huge size of those smoking pits.

Thunder rumbled over the speakers.

Gray didn’t understand the source of the noise—until a resounding series of thunderclaps followed. On the screens, cracks exploded across the snowy field, shattering ice high into the air. Fault lines burst jaggedly from crater to crater and splintered outward across the shelf.

Out of view, Leblang swore loudly. Then he appeared, running down the slope toward his endangered crew. The videographer dropped his camcorder and followed, too. The camera landed askew in the snow, still shooting, offering a crooked view of the chaos.

Fissures in the ice split wider, tearing apart the terrain below.

Men fled the destruction in all directions. Faint screams reached the camera’s microphone.

Gray spotted a pair of sailors falling away as the ice opened under them. An entire continent of ice slowly split away from the main shelf. Another crack skittered toward the camera and exploded before its lens, then the screen went black.

Kowalski, a former navy man himself, was on his feet, his fists clenched in frustration, unable to do anything.

Then Painter was back, red-faced and shocked, bent beside Kat, passing on orders. “—McMurdo Station. Raise the alarm. Tell them to get birds in the air ASAP.”

Gray waited silently as Painter and Kat sounded the alarm.

Once done, Painter finally returned his attention to Gray. “Now you understand what we might be facing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shortly before Leblang reported from Antarctica, technicians and engineers over at the SMC in Los Angeles had confirmed their initial speculation that the destruction caught digitally by the crashing satellite was secondary to a cluster of meteor strikes along the East Coast.”

Gray pictured the devastation from a moment ago, imagining what would happen if those five meteors had hit a population center.

“The techs estimate that what impacted Antarctica were superbolide meteors, averaging seventeen to twenty meters across. They each struck with the energy equivalent of eight atomic bombs.”

Gray swallowed.

No wonder that shelf shattered into pieces.

Painter continued, “From analyzing the satellite image in great detail—taking into account the blast patterns, the depth of the impact craters, the degree of catastrophic destruction—they estimate that it would take meteors threefold larger than in Antarctica to cause that much damage.”

Gray went cold, picturing all his friends and family out there, including everyone at Sigma command.

“And it might not just be the East Coast,” Painter warned. “We have only this
one
snapshot. There is no way of telling if the destruction is more widespread, even global.”

“Or if it will happen at all,” Gray added, still skeptical. But after what he’d just witnessed, he was willing to err on the side of caution.

“That’s why we need that satellite recovered,” Painter said. “We have every eye looking skyward at the moment—Hubble, NASA’s Swift satellite, the UK Space Agency. We’re tracking a slew of rocks dragging in the wake of that comet, some as large as two hundred meters across. So far, according to all estimates, none of them are at risk of hitting the earth.”

“But what about the ones that just struck Antarctica?”

“That’s the problem. We can’t catch everything. It’s taken NASA fifteen years to track fewer than ten thousand asteroids in near-Earth orbit, meaning the vast majority go undetected. Take the Chelyabinsk meteor that exploded over Russia last year. It came as a total shocker. And if that meteor hadn’t exploded in the upper atmosphere, releasing a lot of its energy, it would have hit Russia with the force of twenty Hiroshima bombs.”

“So we can’t be sure of anything.”

Painter glanced to Kat, as if reluctant to say something.

“What?” Gray asked.

Kat nodded to Painter, who sighed loudly.

“There’s one last bit of disturbing news coming out of the SMC. It’s too early to draw any firm conclusions. But one of the physicists who was working closely with Dr. Jada Shaw has been analyzing her data on the initial gravitational anomalies in the comet, those same inconsistencies that Dr. Shaw believed proved the presence of dark energy.”

“And?”

“And the physicist at the SMC has been continuing to track those anomalies, as the comet comes closer to Earth. He’s convinced they’re growing
larger
.”

“What does that mean?”

Painter shot a glance toward Kat. “We’re still waiting for an answer to that very question. It could be significant . . . or it could be meaningless. We won’t know until more data is collected and analyzed.”

“How long will that take?”

“Half a day at the least, maybe longer.”

“So in the meantime, we find that satellite.”

“It may hold the answers to everything.” Painter stared hard at him. “How soon can you leave?”

“Now. If Kat can arrange the logistics—”

She shifted back in her seat. “I can get Commander Pierce’s team on the ground in Mongolia by daybreak.”

“What about Monk’s team?” Gray asked.

“I just heard word out of Kazakhstan,” Kat said. “A storm front will have them pinned down for a short time. But barring any other problems, they should be able to join you in Ulan Bator by midmorning.”

“Then let’s make that happen,” Painter said. “We need as many eyes on the ground out there as possible. Is Seichan willing to join you?”

On the way to this meeting, Gray had spotted Guan-yin heading down the hall, hiding the tears in her eyes. She was flying back to Hong Kong to assist those of her Triad who were still in harm’s way. From those tears, Gray could guess the answer to Painter’s question.

“I believe Seichan will be coming.”

“Good.”

Painter quickly signed off, plainly busy on multiple fronts.

Gray stared at the black screen, again picturing the destruction in Antarctica, appreciating the urgency.

Monk had better not be late.

17

November 19, 12:17
A
.
M
. QYZT

The Aral Sea, Kazakhstan

Rachel and the others hurried below, returning to the clutter of Father Josip’s inner sanctum. Deep in the warren of tunnels and rooms, the howl of the wind reached them as the storm bore down upon the derelict ship above their heads. It whistled through the rusted hull, shook loose tin, rattled broken rails.

Up above, the pilot was securing the chopper against the storm, positioning the craft on the leeward side of that mountain of corroded steel, and doing his best to seal and cover the engine and moving parts from the blowing salt and sand.

More of Josip’s crew occupied the lowermost levels, seemingly oblivious to the racket and danger, plainly used to retreating below when Nature grew too violent above. They lounged, or played cards, or did simple chores to occupy their time.

Rachel took some small comfort in their ease.

“Let’s get this box on the table,” Monk ordered Duncan.

As the two hauled the tarnished silver chest across the room, Jada shook sand from her hair and patted dust and salt off her clothes. But she wasn’t the only one with her feathers ruffled.

Sanjar coaxed his hooded falcon to a wooden perch. Heru flapped his wings several times, irritated, but his sharp claws clung to the roost; he knew better than to fly blind. His handler whispered soothingly, calming the bird with a preening scratch behind its neck.

Rachel stood next to him, appreciating his skill.

Her uncle had other interests. He waved Josip toward the table. “We should study this as thoroughly as we can, discern any clues about where to go next.”

Josip nodded, but again he wore that distracted look, as if his mind were elsewhere. He stood staring at a tall bookcase, his back to the table as Monk and Duncan placed the box next to the other relics.

Arslan moved to the priest’s side, as if to consult him.

Instead, he placed the muzzle of a black pistol into Josip’s side and barked loudly, “Everyone away from the table! Hands up and high!”

Caught off guard, no one moved for a breath—then men poured into the room through the open door, carrying rifles or curved swords. They appeared to be members of the excavation crew hired by Josip.

Gunfire echoed out in the hallway.

Rachel could guess the fate of the remainder of that crew. She pictured the explosion at the university, the bombing in Aktau. It seemed the enemy had been closer than anyone suspected all along.

Josip turned to his foreman, wearing a confused expression. “What is this about, Arslan?”

As answer, Arslan cuffed him hard across the mouth, splitting his lip. He then roughly grabbed Josip’s arm, spun him about, and moved the pistol to the middle of his back.

Sanjar stepped forward. “Cousin, what are you doing?”

“I do what the Master of the Blue Wolf commands,” Arslan said. “And you will obey. You swore allegiance, same as I.”

Josip turned to Sanjar with a wounded expression.

Arslan motioned with his head toward the door, bitter command in his voice. “Go now, Cousin. Or be buried here with them.”

Sanjar took a step back. “I agreed to watch, to report on Father Josip’s actions . . . but not this, never this. He is a good man. These others have done no harm.”

“Then die with them,” he said with ringing disdain. “You were always too weak, Sanjar, your head in the winds with your bird, pampered by your rich parents who looked down upon their poorer cousins. Never a true warrior of the khan.”

Turning aside, Arslan shouted to his crew in Mongolian. Four immediately ran up, scooped the relics from the table, and retreated to the door.

Rachel watched their hard-won treasures vanish.

Arslan followed in their wake, with Josip clutched in front of him, using the priest as a hostage and a shield. He called to his men, who began closing the door to the chamber. It was heavy steel. From the rivets and rust, it was probably a hatch salvaged from the ship above.

From the doorway, Arslan shared a final threat for his cousin, for them all. “While you were all gone, my warriors placed explosive charges throughout this hollowed-out rat’s nest. Rock will turn to dust, collapsing all. And as the heavy ship above sinks atop you, it will be your gravestone. None will ever know what happened here.”

A few men laughed harshly.

The crew kept their guns trained, especially on Monk and Duncan, wise enough to recognize the biggest danger to their plans.

“Kill them,” Arslan ordered his men in the room. “Then join us up top.”

Sanjar cast a glance toward Rachel, rolling his eyes up, then over to the falcon.

It took her a heartbeat, then she understood.

With the crew ignoring her, Rachel reached over and plucked the bonnet from Heru’s feathered head.

Sanjar yelled a command in his native tongue and pointed at Arslan. The falcon exploded off the perch, sweeping up to the wooden rafters that bolstered the sandstone roof.

Weapons shifted, shooting at the bird, the blasts stinging Rachel’s ears.

Untouched, Heru dove down, a feathered arrow shot from Sanjar’s bow. Claws raked Arslan, splitting cheek and scalp. Wings beat at his face, driving the man to his knees, screaming in pain.

Then gunfire erupted in the middle of the room.

12:38
A
.
M
.

As soon as the nearest weapon swung toward the roof, Duncan moved. He bowled into the nearest guard, taking him down. The gunman’s head hit the corner of the table, hard enough to crack bone. The man fell limp under him.

He grabbed the loose rifle and rolled away. Still, on his back, Duncan took out a second assassin with a burst of rounds to the chest. Then gunfire chewed into the stone between his legs, chasing him backward, until he was under the table.