The Forbidden Tomb (20 page)

‘One down,’ Cobb whispered.

Garcia drew a slash on his notepad. It was up to him to keep track of enemy personnel in the tunnel, or lack thereof. ‘Copy that. One confirmed.’

* * *

McNutt was confused by the broadcast. Something was definitely wrong. Either he had missed an earlier transmission, or Cobb had just radioed in bad intelligence.

No way,
he thought.
Cobb doesn’t make mistakes.

Then again, the evidence was hard to dispute.

‘You mean
two
down,’ McNutt replied.

‘Negative,’ Cobb shot back. ‘One down. Repeat.
One down
.’

McNutt frowned. He looked at the gunman lying at his feet and kicked him gently to see if he was alive. It was obvious that he wasn’t since he was lying in a puddle of blood and his guts were spilling out. ‘Chief, I’m standing over your handiwork. Dark hair, about six feet tall, incision from his crotch to his chest. Sound familiar?’

‘
Negative
,’ Cobb replied. ‘Not mine.’

Even if Cobb was the joking type – which he wasn’t – the tone of his voice told McNutt that he wasn’t fooling around.

‘Well, it’s certainly not mine,’ McNutt assured them. ‘I would have remembered this one because this guy was gutted. What about Sarah?’

‘Not hers, either,’ Garcia said. ‘She’s still off the grid.’

‘Then whose is it?’

Cobb gave it some thought. ‘Either they’re killing each other, or . . .’

Or there are more people down here than them and us.

‘Guys,’ Cobb whispered, ‘I don’t think we’re alone. I think there’s an interloper in the tunnels.’

McNutt froze in place. ‘Fuck me. Is that like an alligator?’

‘No! A third team. I think there’s a third team in the tunnels. Us, the gunmen, and someone else.’

‘Cowboys, Indians,
and
aliens?’

‘Yes! Three separate entities.’

The newcomers – murderous assassins who had been dispatched to protect the tunnels at all costs – did not play favorites. The motion detector in the iron grate and the infrared cameras hidden in the crevices of the ceiling had signaled two groups of trespassers, and the assassins were there to ensure that no one survived.

McNutt cursed under his breath. Initially, the discovery of the dead gunman had been a blessing, but now that he understood the full scope of the situation – that there was a knife-wielding third party lurking in the tunnels – he realized that the killer might still be nearby. He quickly raised his scope in order to survey the room, a split second before the attack began. He only caught a glimpse of the man, dressed in black like a ninja, before the blade struck him. The glancing blow sliced through his arm like a razor.

Ignoring the pain, McNutt kept the gun pressed tightly to his shoulder as he followed the track of his attacker.

Both spun toward each other, determined to inflict a fatal wound.

It was McNutt who found his mark first.

He squeezed the trigger of his Glauberyt and watched as the hail of bullets pierced the swordsman’s chest. Blood splattered on the wall as the body dropped to the ground. McNutt relaxed his grip and stood there in silence, thankful for his quick reflexes.

But it wasn’t over.

His senses now fueled by adrenalin, McNutt heard footsteps scurrying across the beams behind him. He turned again, his weapon raised, his instincts still intact.

The last thing McNutt expected was a circus performance, but that’s what it looked like to him. Three new arrivals leaped about the upper levels of the cistern with acrobatic moves that were as graceful as they were astonishing. While he and Cobb had been forced to climb the columns using brute strength and an iron grip, McNutt watched as the gymnastic mercenaries propelled themselves upwards by springing off the columns and landing on the arch above. They used momentum to defy gravity, all while keeping a firm grasp on their blades.

They moved about the room like monkeys.

But they were circling like sharks.

‘Jack, we’ve got company. At least three more men.’

McNutt took aim and fired. The rounds missed the assassins and smashed into the ceiling, showering him with bits of rubble. He fired again, and bullets ricocheted in every direction as more pieces of the stone cavern were dislodged.

He cursed under his breath and tried to spot them in the darkness. In all of his years of combat, he had never seen anyone move like that.

If his life hadn’t been in danger, he would have been impressed.

Instead, this new breed of enemy only strengthened his resolve.

Bear down! You’re a fucking Marine!

The moment for subtlety had passed.

It was time to unleash hell.

McNutt aimed his gun at the monkey men and unleashed a torrent of gunfire. He swung his Glauberyt from side to side, spraying the cistern above like a sprinkler.

The invading force had no choice but to take cover. An unsuspecting target was one thing, but this was something else entirely. Having been spotted, they now faced the full fury of a submachine gun and decided to hide behind the pillars.

McNutt reloaded, determined to continue the onslaught. He slammed the magazine into place, chambered a round, and pulled the trigger.

Instead of a hail of bullets, a single shot cut through the darkness.

McNutt released the trigger, then squeezed again.

But nothing happened.

‘No,’ he muttered. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

With danger lurking, he felt along the side of the Glauberyt, searching for the source of the problem like a blind man reading Braille. His scope – his source of sight in the darkness – was no use to him, as it was securely mounted to the gun itself.

It took a few seconds, but he eventually figured it out.

Typically, the force of a discharged round would initiate a chain of events that would cycle a fresh round into the chamber. But in this case the bolt, the mechanism that drives the shell from the magazine to the chamber, was jammed.

Which meant the Glauberyt couldn’t fire.

Like most Marines, McNutt could fieldstrip and reassemble a gun with his eyes closed. He could do it the dark, upside down, and underwater, using only his sense of touch and his absolute knowledge of the weapon to guide him. Having been through all of those scenarios in the past, the prospect of fixing his rifle wasn’t daunting.

Unfortunately, it would take more time than he had.

With few choices left, he decided to taunt his opponents, hoping it would buy him a few extra minutes. That is, if the enemy even spoke English.

McNutt stared at the darkness above and shouted. ‘Come and get me, monkey men! I’ve got night optics and a submachine gun! I live for shit like this! As far as I’m concerned, we can play all day!’

He punctuated his threat by making monkey sounds.

A second later, he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Guys, I’m screwed. My gun is jammed, and the monkey men are ready to attack.’

‘Did you say
monkey men
?’ Garcia asked.

McNutt ignored the question. ‘What was I thinking? Why did I pick a Polish gun? When’s the last time they won a war? Shit,
have
they won a war?’

‘I repeat, did you say
monkey men
?’

‘Yes, Tito, I said
monkey men
. Now answer my goddamned question!’

‘What question is that?’ Garcia shouted back.

‘Have the Polacks ever won a war?’

‘I honestly don’t know!’

‘Quit shouting at me! The monkey men can hear you!’

‘For the love of God, what is a monkey man?’

Cobb had heard enough. ‘Josh, how can I help?’

McNutt instantly calmed down. ‘Do you have a gun that works?’

‘Yes.’

‘Cool. Then I’m coming to you.’

From his time in the service, McNutt knew that there was no dishonor in running – especially when it was authorized by his commanding officer. Cobb was out there, somewhere, waiting to help.

Now all he had to do was find him.

‘Tell me where you’re hiding and I’ll bring the monkeys with me.’

‘Copy that,’ Cobb said. ‘Hector, a little help.’

Garcia, who was keeping track of his team’s positions, knew the shortest way through the maze. ‘Take the first tunnel on your left, and I’ll guide you from there.’

‘Thanks,’ said McNutt as he sprinted toward the left. ‘Be ready, chief. I’ll be coming in fast with multiple bogeys on my tail.’

‘No worries, Josh. I’m ready right now.’

* * *

In all of her studies, Jasmine had never seen anything like it.

She wished she could take it with her, but that was unrealistic, if not entirely impossible, because she was staring at a very long wall that had been chiseled and polished with great care in the depths of the temple. Located less than a hundred yards from the reinforced tunnel, the wall was covered with a series of ancient carvings.

She was stunned by their discovery. ‘Hector, are you getting this?’

There was no reply.

She waved her hand in front of the flashlight, hoping to draw Garcia’s attention – assuming he was still watching.

Again, there was no reply.

‘I think we’ve lost our connection,’ Jasmine said.

In Sarah’s previous life in the CIA, agents didn’t break radio silence unless it was absolutely essential. Most of the time, she was on her own in the field. Having someone chattering in her ear was still a new concept to her, which was why she hadn’t noticed Garcia’s absence until that very moment.

Jasmine stared at the images. ‘We have to preserve this.’

Sarah agreed with the sentiment, but she also realized the impracticality of Jasmine’s request. ‘We can’t take the whole wall. It’s, like, a hundred meters long.’

It wasn’t an exaggeration. The carvings extended as far as her eye could see. They covered the entire wall, from ceiling to floor, like an ancient, colorless mural.

Jasmine slowly swept the beam of her flashlight across every inch of the surface, documenting their discovery with the video camera. They couldn’t take the wall, but at least she could study the recording later.

Meanwhile, Sarah was less concerned about capturing the images for posterity and more concerned with how the carvings could help their mission. She wondered what the markings meant. ‘Jasmine, can you read any of this?’

Jasmine studied the wall, using what symbols she could translate to piece together the story that they were trying to tell. ‘It’s pictography. It spells out the history of the city.’ She pointed to the first frame on the wall. ‘It all starts here.’

Sarah could see the outline of Alexandria’s coast. Tiny waves had been etched into the stone, representing the waters of the Mediterranean. But no distinguishing features were carved into the area that represented the land. Instead, there was an image of a single man: a giant, with the horns of a ram protruding from his head.

‘That’s a depiction of Alexander,’ Jasmine explained. ‘The horns symbolize the belief that he was the divine son of Amun. The fact that he is surrounded by empty space indicates that there was nothing in Alexandria before the appearance of the god-king. That’s not entirely accurate, but you can understand why a culture based on the reverence of one man would choose to start their history with his arrival.’

The next frame depicted the same outline of Alexandria, only now a series of squares had been added throughout the city. Cut amongst these squares were figures of tiny people, living their lives in a golden age.

She continued, ‘Under the watchful gaze of Alexander, the city flourished. Homes were built, and a great many people lived happily in this land.’

She walked along the wall, summarizing her interpretation of the events portrayed in the carvings and recording everything that she saw. The upside-down image of the horned man meant the death of Alexander. The transition toward Roman influence was conveyed in the form of a giant wolf.

‘It’s probably a rendition of the Capitoline Wolf,’ Jasmine said. ‘Legend holds that the city of Rome was founded by twin brothers, Romulus and Remus. They had been abandoned at birth and were raised by a she-wolf.’

Jasmine paused, carefully studying the next image.

Her lips slowly curled into a smile.

Sarah stared at the symbol. ‘What is it?’

Jasmine traced the outline with her finger. ‘Three cobras. The trio of Uraei. This was the personal symbol of Cleopatra.’

Sarah understood Jasmine’s reaction. Cleopatra was the last pharaoh of Ancient Egypt. As queen, she was believed to be the living manifestation of the goddess Isis. She was beloved by her people and revered by her peers. In an era ruled by men, Cleopatra’s reign proved that there was no such thing as the weaker sex.

As Jasmine marveled at the scene of Cleopatra, Sarah moved further down the line. Though she lacked Jasmine’s training, she was still able to decipher some of the images. She recognized the Christian cross and the papal seal, indicating the rise of Christianity. She understood the scenes of battle, though she had no way of knowing that they represented the Kitos War, when the Romans targeted the local Jewish population.

But there was one picture that she could not interpret.

She called for help. ‘Jasmine, come look at this.’

Jasmine rushed over and immediately understood the emblems portrayed in the image. Not only that, she was excited by their significance.

‘It’s the destruction of the library,’ she explained as she pointed to the long, rectangular block drawn with columns on all sides. There was a split carved through the center of the block, as if it had been broken in half.

Jasmine beamed. ‘If this is accurate, we now know when it was destroyed.’

‘How can you tell that from the picture? I don’t see any dates.’

‘There aren’t any dates, but we can infer from the context.’

Jasmine pointed to an image of a man with rays of sunlight radiating from his head. ‘This is the symbol of Sol Invictus, the Roman sun god. It was adopted by the Emperor Aurelian during his reign as an expression of his belief that Sol alone held divinity over all others in the pantheon. In an effort to assert Roman dominance in Alexandria, Aurelian destroyed the city’s Royal Quarter in a great fire.’