The Midnight Watch: A Sigma Force Short Story (5 page)

The tiger pounced after its prey, slamming into the front of the cage.

Kowalski kept his hands clamped to the bars, holding the door closed.

The tiger rolled to its feet, stalking a bit back and forth, ruffling its fur as if shaking off water. Large brown eyes stared at Kowalski, while hot breath panted through the bars.

“That’s a good kitty, Anton,” Kowalski said softly, hoping it was true.

A large huff escaped the beast’s throat, as if it recognized its name. The tiger stalked back and forth twice more, then settled to the floor, slumping against the bars. After several tense moments, a low rumbling purr flowed from its bulk.

Kowalski swallowed hard—then, knowing he would never have a better chance, he risked reaching through the bars and running his fingers through the warm ruff of the great beast. The purring deepened, proving Sara was right.

You are a pussycat
.

As if Anton sensed this thought, the timbre of his purr rattled into a deep, warning grumble. Kowalski retracted his hand.

Okay, maybe not
.

T
HREE HOURS LATER,
Kowalski was back in the motor pool. Painter had debriefed him, and medical had cleared him. Though his rib cage still ached with every breath, he hadn’t even broken a rib.

With a smoldering cigar clamped between his molars, Kowalski stared down at the bent length of steel, dimpled in the center from the 9mm round. He had wanted to dismiss his survival as dumb luck, like something out of a movie, but he knew a part of him had slipped the nameplate inside his jacket on purpose.

Placing it over my heart
.

The only luck here was that the Chinese assassin had been such a crack shot.

If he had struck a few inches in any other direction
. . .

He ran his fingers over the silver letters, knowing in this moment that their love had saved him this night.

Thanks, Elizabeth
 . . .

He contemplated repairing the plate, returning it to its pristine condition. Maybe even sending it to her in Egypt with some note, some last attempt at reconciliation. Instead, he exhaled a stream of smoke, recognizing the futility of such an act and accepting the reality of the situation—maybe truly for the first time.

And that was okay.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the nameplate into a trash bin, knowing that was where it belonged.

He turned and crossed over to the Jeep. He ran his palm along the front quarter panel, feeling the dimpling of bullet rounds here, too.

He smiled around his cigar.

You, my beautiful girl . . . you I can fix
.

P
AINTER
C
ROWE STOOD
inside the communication nest of Sigma command, while Jason Carter once again worked at one of the stations. It had been a long night, with still more meetings scheduled at daybreak. There remained countless unanswered questions, mysteries that would need further investigation in the days ahead.

While Sigma had recovered the drive abandoned by the pair of Chinese spies at the lab—thus safeguarding most of Dr. Sara Gutierrez’s research—Jason’s forensic analysis of the cyber attack offered no concrete answers as to
who
was actually behind all of this. The Chinese government had already gone into full plausible-deniability mode, and Painter doubted any attempt to identify the three bodies recovered from the Mall’s excavation site would trace back to Beijing. The other assailants, along with the two spies at the zoo, had vanished into the wind.

But even more disconcerting was the fact that the
goal
behind all of this remained a complete enigma.

Jason spoke up from his station. “I give up. I can’t find any significance to this symbol. Maybe Captain Bryant will be able to use her contacts in the intelligence agencies to offer some further insight once she gets here.”

Painter joined Jason, staring at the set of Chinese characters glowing on the screen. The symbols had been found etched on the recovered drive’s housing.

“All I can tell you is that this translates from Mandarin as ‘The Ark,’ ” Jason said. “But beyond that, I have no clue to its significance.”

Painter placed a palm on his shoulder. “That’ll have to do for now. Why don’t you head home and get some well-deserved rest?”

Jason nodded, but he did not look happy.

Neither am I
.

Once Painter had the place to himself, he brought up a video file on another screen. It was footage from one of the countless security cams that monitored the nation’s capital. In this case, it covered the National Mall.

He watched a small Jeep shoot up the side of a mountain of dirt, coming to an abrupt halt near the top. The pair of pursuing motorcycles shot past the stalled vehicle and went sailing high—before descending in a deadly plunge into a dark pit.

Painter rubbed his chin, appreciating the quick wits and skill involved in pulling off that takedown. He sensed that there remained unplumbed depths to that driver. He even allowed himself to consider an impossible proposition.

Maybe it’
s high time I gave Kowalski his own mission
.

What’s True, What’s Not

At the end of my full-length novels, I love to spell out what’s real and what’s fiction. I thought I’d briefly do the same here.

S
MITHS
ONIAN’S
C
ONSERVATION
B
IOLOGY
I
NSTITUTE.
This research station’s main facility encompasses 3,200 acres in Fort Royal, Virginia, but it also has a campus at the Rock Creek Research Labs at the National Zoo. One of the programs mentioned here—the “Ancient DNA” project—is an ongoing endeavor. The researchers seek to study changing patterns of genetic variation over time by analyzing DNA collected from museum specimens and archaeological artifacts. Where this might lead—as well as the implication for our species—is fascinating. And it leaves lots of room for further exploration on an even grander scale.

N
ATIONAL
M
ALL
T
URF
AND
S
OIL
R
ESTORATION
.
This is indeed an active project to restore the thirteen acres of heavily trafficked lawns. Since the current phase of this project has ripped up the acres that lie between the Smithsonian Castle and the National Museum of Natural History, I thought what better chance for an off-road chase scene, especially with the site’s towering piles of dirt and deep excavations, including the digging of a 250,000-gallon cistern to collect storm water.

C
HINESE
H
ACKERS.
I
T
seems like seldom a week goes by that we don’t hear of a new cyber attack by Chinese agents, whether it’s the infiltration of the Office of Personnel Management or the theft of fighter jet schematics. But these incursions are not only to steal intellectual property; they’re also to compromise systems. Chinese cyber forces—which do number into the hundreds of thousands—have damaged systems aboard commercial ships and even an airline used by the U.S. And they have grown bolder of late, even sending operatives onto U.S. shores in an attempt to nab Chinese defectors, as reported by the president recently. As to the next level of attack, I believe it’s coming—soon.

So that ends this tale—but as you might imagine, it’s only the beginning of a much larger story, an epic adventure like no other, one that will reveal a real-life archaeological mystery tied to Neil Armstrong, one that masks a monumental secret about the moon itself . . . all that, and also the introduction of a new character, unlike any seen in print before.

So where will the creative genius of author James Rollins take us next?

Drawing on—and stretching far beyond—the questions raised in The Midnight Watch,
THE BONE LABYRINTH
will reveal hidden truths of incredible significance that threaten national security today and will make you look at the world and our place in the universe with new eyes.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the greatest Sigma Force novel to date—a story that will leave you forever changed.

Coming in December 2015 from William Morrow

Epigraphs

Intelligence
is an accident of evolution, and not necessarily an advantage.

—
I
SAAC
A
SIMOV

The measure of
intelligence
is the ability to change.

—
A
LBERT
E
INSTEIN

Prologue

Autumn, 38,000 B.C.

Southern Alps

“
R
UN, CHILD!”

Fires lit the woods behind them. For the past day, the flames had chased K’ruk and his daughter higher into the snowy mountains. But it was not the choking smoke or searing heat that K’ruk feared most. He searched behind him, seeking to catch a glimpse of the hunters, those who had set the forest afire in pursuit of the pair, but he saw no sign of the enemy.

Still, he heard the howling of wolves in the distance, great beasts that bowed to the will of those hunters. The pack sounded closer now, only a valley away.

He glanced worriedly toward the sun as it sat near the horizon. The ruddy glow in the sky reminded him of the promise of warmth that lay in that direction, of their home caves tunneled under green hills and black rock, where water still flowed and the deer and bison roamed thickly in the woods of the lower slopes.

He imagined those home fires blazing bright, spitted meat dripping fat into the sizzling flames, the clan gathering together before settling in for the night. He longed for that old life, but he knew that path was no longer open to him—or especially for his daughter.

A sharp cry of pain drew his attention forward. Onka had slipped on a moss-slick rock and fallen hard. She was normally surefooted, but they had been in flight for three long days.

He hurried to her and pulled her up, her young face shining with fear and sweat. He stopped long enough to cup her cheek. In her small features, he saw whispers of her mother, a clan healer who had died shortly after Onka was born. He curled a finger in his daughter’s fiery hair.

So like your mother’
s. . .

But he also saw more in Onka’s features, those aspects that branded her as different. Her nose was thinner than any of K’ruk’s clan, even for a girl of only nine winters. Her brow was also straighter, less heavy. He stared into her blue eyes, as bright as a summer sky. That shine and those features marked her as a blended spirit, someone who walked halfway between K’ruk’s people and those who had come recently from the south with their thinner limbs and quicker tongues.

Such special children were said to be omens, proving by their births how the two tribes—new and old—could live together in peace. Perhaps not in the same caves, but they could at least share the same hunting grounds. And as the two tribes grew closer, more were born like Onka. These children were revered. They looked at the world with different eyes, becoming great shamans, healers, or hunters.

Then two days ago, a clansman from a neighboring valley had arrived. He had been wounded unto death, but he still had enough breath to warn of a mighty enemy, a blight spreading across the mountains. This mysterious clan came in large numbers, hunting for such special ones as Onka. No tribes were allowed to harbor such children. Those that did were slaughtered.

Upon hearing of this, K’ruk knew he could not jeopardize his clan, nor would he allow Onka to be taken. So he had fled with his daughter, but someone must have alerted the enemy about their flight.

About Onka.

I will not let them have you.

He took her hand and set a harder pace, but before long, Onka was stumbling more than walking, limping on her injured ankle. He picked her up as they crested a ridge and stared down into the forest below. A creek cut along the bottom, promising a place to drink.

“We can rest there,” he said, pointing. “But only for a short—”

A branch snapped off to the left. Dropping into a wary crouch, he lowered Onka and raised his stone-tipped spear. A slender shape appeared from behind a deadfall, cloaked and booted in reindeer leather. Their gazes met. Even without a word spoken, K’ruk knew this other was like Onka, one born of mixed spirits. But from his clothing and from the way he tied his shaggy hair with a leather cord, it was clear he was not of K’ruk’s clan but from those slender-limbed tribes who came later to these mountains.

Another howl rose behind them, sounding even closer.

The stranger cocked his ear, listening; then a hand rose and beckoned. Words were spoken, but K’ruk did not understand them. Finally, the stranger simply waved his arm, pointed toward the creek, and set off down the wooded slope.

K’ruk considered whether to follow, but another baying of the enemy’s wolves set him off after the stranger. He fled, carrying Onka to keep up with the man’s agile passage. Reaching the creek, they discovered others waiting for them there, a group of ten or twelve, some younger than Onka, others hunchbacked elders. They bore markings from several clans.

Still, the group shared one common feature.

They were all of mixed spirits.

The stranger came forward and dropped to a knee before Onka. A finger touched her brow and ran along her cheekbone, plainly recognizing Onka as one of a similar kind.

His daughter in turn reached and touched a marking on the stranger’s forehead: a pebbling of scars in a strange pointed shape.

Onka’s fingertip ran over those bumps as if finding hidden meaning there. The other grinned, seeming to sense the child’s understanding.

The stranger straightened and laid a palm upon his own chest. “Teron,” he said.

K’ruk knew this must be his name, but the stranger spoke rapidly after that, waving to one of the elders who leaned heavily upon a thick gnarled staff.

The old man came forward and spoke in K’ruk’s people’s tongue. “Teron says the girl may join us. We are heading through a high pass that Teron knows, one that is yet free of ice, but only for another few days. If we can make it ahead of the enemy, we can break the hunters from our trail.”

“Until those snows thaw again,” K’ruk added worriedly.

“That won’t be for many moons. We will have vanished by then, our trail long cold.”

A fresh howling of wolves in the distance reminded them that the trail was far from cold at the moment.

The elder recognized this, too. “We must go now before they fall upon us.”

“And you will take my daughter?” He pushed Onka toward Teron.

Teron reached and gripped K’ruk by the shoulder, squeezing a promise with his strong fingers.

“She is welcome,” the elder assured him. “We will protect her. But on this long trek, we could use your strong back and sharp spear.”

K’ruk took a step away and gripped the shaft of his weapon more firmly. “The enemy comes too swiftly. I will use my last breaths to turn them from your trail or hold them off long enough for you and the others to reach the pass.”

Onka’s gaze met his, already teary-eyed with understanding. “Papa . . .”

His chest ached as he spoke. “This is your clan now, Onka. They will see you to better lands, where you will be safe and where you will grow into the strong woman I know you can be.”

Onka broke free of Teron’s grip and leaped at K’ruk, wrapping her thin arms around his neck.

With grief choking him as much as his daughter’s arms, he pulled Onka free and passed her to Teron, who hugged her from behind. K’ruk leaned and touched his forehead to Onka’s brow, saying good-bye, knowing he would never see his daughter again.

He then stood, turned, and strode away from the creek, heading up the slope toward the howling of wolves—but all he heard were the plaintive cries of Onka behind him.

Live well, my child.

He climbed more swiftly, determined to keep her safe. Once he reached the ridgeline, he sped toward the baying of the hunters’ beasts. Their cries had grown more raucous, rising from the next valley over.

He ran now, loping in great strides.

He reached the next crest as the sun sank away, filling the valley below with shadows. Slowing, he descended more cautiously, warily, especially as the wolves had gone silent now. He ducked low, sliding from shadow to shadow, staying downwind of the pack, careful of each step so as not to snap a branch.

At last he could spy the bottom of the valley, noting the stirring of darkness below. The wolves. One of the beasts shifted fully into view, revealing a shape unlike any wolf. Its mane was heavily matted. Scars marked its massive bulk. Lips rippled back to reveal long, yellowed fangs.

Though his heart pounded in his throat, K’ruk remained crouched, waiting for the masters of those monstrous beasts to show themselves.

Finally, taller shadows folded out of the trees. The largest stepped into view and revealed the true face of the enemy for the first time.

K’ruk went cold at the sight, terror icing through him.

No, it cannot be. . .

Still, he tightened his grip on his spear and glanced over his shoulder.

Run, Onka. Run and never stop.

Spring 1669

Rome, Papal States

Nicolas Steno marched the young emissary through the depths of the museum of the Collegio Romano. The stranger was heavily cloaked, his boots muddy, all a plain testament to both his urgency and secrecy.

The German messenger had been dispatched by Leopold I, the Holy Roman Emperor to the north. The package he carried was intended for Nicolas’s dear friend, Father Athanasius Kircher, the creator of this museum.

The emissary gaped at the many curiosities of nature found here, at the Egyptian obelisks, at the mechanical wonders that ticked and hummed, all crowned overhead by soaring domes decorated with astronomical details. The young man’s gaze caught upon a boulder of amber, lit behind by candelight, revealing the preserved body of a lizard inside.

“Don’t tarry,” Nicolas warned and drew the messenger onward.

Nicolas knew every corner of this place, every bound volume, mostly works by the master of this museum. Nicolas had spent the better part of a year here, sent by his own benefactor, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, to study the museum’s contents in order to construct his own cabinet of curiosities back at the duke’s palazzo in Florence.

At last he reached a tall oak door and pounded a fist on it.

A voice responded. “Enter.”

He hauled the door open and ushered the emissary into a small study, lit by the coals of a dying fire. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Reverend Father.”

The German messenger immediately dropped to one knee before the wide desk, bowing his head.

A long sigh rose from the figure bent amid the piles of books atop the desk. He held a quill in hand, the tip poised over a large parchment. “Come to rifle through my collection yet again, dear Nicolas? I should tell you that I’ve taken to numbering the books shelved here.”

Nicolas smiled. “I promise to return my copy of
Mundus Subterraneus
once I’ve fully refuted many of your claims found therein.”

“Is that so? I hear you’re putting the final flourishes upon your own work concerning the subterranean mysteries of rock and crystal.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Indeed. But before I present it, I would humbly welcome a similar searing analysis from one such as yourself.”

After Nicolas had arrived here a year ago, the two had spent many long nights in deep discourse concerning all manner of science, theology, and philosophy. Though Kircher was thirty-seven years his elder and deserved respect, the priest appreciated anyone willing to challenge him. In fact, upon their first meeting, the pair had argued vigorously concerning a paper Nicolas had published two years previously, declaring that glossopetrae or “tongue stones” found embedded in rocks were actually the teeth of ancient sharks. Father Kircher held a similar interest in bones and pieces of the past locked in stratified stone. They had hotly debated the origin of such mysteries. It was in such a crucible of scientific inquiry that the two had become each other’s admirers, colleagues, and most of all, friends.

Father Kircher’s gaze settled upon the emissary, still on bended knee before his overloaded desk. “And who is your companion?”

“He comes with a package from Leopold I. It would seem the emperor has remembered enough of his Jesuit education to send something of import to your doorstep. Leopold appealed to the Grand Duke to have me present this man to you with some urgency, under a cloak of dire secrecy.”

Father Kircher lowered his quill. “Intriguing.”

They both knew the current emperor had an interest in science and the natural world, instilled in him by the Jesuit scholars who had tutored the man in his youth. Emperor Leopold himself had been headed into the church until the death of his older brother to the pox had placed the pious scholar onto that cold northern throne.

Father Kircher waved to the messenger. “Enough of this foolish posturing, my good man. Stand and deliver what you’ve traveled so far to present.”

The emissary rose up and pulled back the cowl of his hood, revealing the face of a young man who could not be more than twenty years. From a satchel, he retrieved a thick letter, plainly sealed with the emperor’s sigil. He stepped forward and placed it upon the desk, then quickly stepped back.

Kircher glanced toward Nicolas, who merely shrugged, equally in the dark about the particulars of this matter.

Kircher retrieved a knife and slit through the seal to open the package. A small object rolled out and toppled to the desktop. It was a bone, frosted with crystalline rock. Pinching his brow, Kircher pulled out and unfolded a parchment included with the artifact. Even from steps away, Nicolas saw it was a detailed map of eastern Europe. Father Kircher studied it for a breath.