The Mongol Objective (40 page)

“But he wouldn’t have been able to burn it like the other scrolls,” Montross said. “You did the right thing. Now it’s up to us to finish it.”

Alexander pouted. “But, what about Aunt Phoebe and Orlando?”

“They’ll be ok,” Caleb said. “If I know my sister, she’s already figured a way out of there, and they’re on the run, somewhere safe.”

“And Nina?”

Caleb paused. “She’s got other priorities now.”

Montross shrugged. “She’s inscrutable. She owed me for breaking her out of that facility, but that debt’s been repaid many times over. My guess is that she’s going to side with her boys. You know how she was always drawn to power, and she’s just been elevated to their high queen, the mother of the messiahs. At least in their minds.”

Caleb shook his head. “Then let’s go. This isn’t over.”

“But what can we do?” Alexander asked. “Even if we make it through the maze that I know is waiting for us under the pyramids, probably loaded with more traps and things to squash us or impale us, how do we stop the end of the world?”

Glancing from Alexander back to Montross, Caleb smiled hopefully. “I keep coming back to that image the Morpheus Initiative had been seeing every time we asked about the tablet, asked to be shown its origin and its function. There’s something else we’re missing, some piece that I have to believe we’re being drawn to because it might help us.” He thought again for a moment. “Remember, Marduk wasn’t the only one with followers. Thoth had his believers, scholars and philosophers who, knowing the threat, may have secreted something else away. Something that we can use to counter what the other side is planning.”

Montross’s eyes sparkled with sudden vigor. “Yes. I hadn’t thought back on this. Hadn’t considered this aspect. Instead, I just used it as a lure to get you away from guarding the tablet. But you’re right.”

“What are we talking about?” Alexander asked.

“The head,” Montross said. “The crowned head we’ve been seeing and searching for.”

“Nina said something,” Montross whispered, “about the Statue of Liberty.”

“Yes,” Caleb said. “The twins were there. With someone. Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Montross. “But if something we need is on Liberty Island, we’ve got to get it before they do.”

“Something else to RV when we get the chance,” Caleb said, then paused, frowning.

“What, Dad?”

Caleb nodded to himself. “I just thought of something. I may know what it is—what they’re looking for.”

“What?”

“You jogged my memory just now.
The Incredibles . . .
the sharp claw-thing used by Mr. Incredible to tear through the robot’s shell.”

“Yeah,” Alexander said. “So what?”

Montross’s eyes went wide. “I think I know, too.”

Caleb smiled. “The symbol of Marduk. The slaying of the dragon. He had—”

“
A lance!
” Montross licked his lips and then swooned, holding his head.

Alexander glanced around helplessly as Montross slowly recovered.

“Later,” Montross said. “I’ll tell you later. Now we need to get out of here. Fast.”

Caleb went to the first pillar and turned it clockwise, then went to the second, twisting it in the other direction for three rotations.

The side door opened. Inside, a hallway flickered into view as floor-lamps filled with glowing light, like a runway guiding them in.

“Time to move,” Montross said, a spring in his step. “And trust me, we don’t die down here in this sprawling, sadistic labyrinth of hell, one that I fear might make Genghis Khan’s place look like a kid’s playpen.” He stopped, glancing back, frowning. “Well, at least I know I don’t die.”

24.

Despite Caleb’s assessment, Phoebe remained restrained in the back of the helicopter, along with Orlando, until the pilot, acting on orders transmitted over his headset, came into the cabin and cut them free. He disconnected the transfusions and saline drip, bandaged Orlando up, then escorted them out onto the desert to a waiting limousine.

Between the Sphinx’s paws, Nina stood in the middle of a crowd of soldiers, barking orders and pointing to locations around the site. She glanced over to them once, nodded, then looked away quickly.

“Here,” said the pilot, tossing Orlando’s pack to him, then pushing both of them inside the limo. “This man will take you to the airport, where you’ll have a flight waiting.”

“Going where?” Phoebe asked, her mouth dry, her head spinning.

“New York. Your part in this is done.”

“But my brother? My nephew—?”

“I won’t say it again. You’re going home, where you’ll be watched. If you try to leave the country, we’ll have you detained.” He smirked under his visor. “Or killed.”

“That seems fair.” Orlando leaned on the open car door, trying to be chivalrous and let Phoebe in first. Then he slid in beside her, with his pack on his lap.

On the ride to the airport, as they passed through the perimeter of jeeps and men with guns, Orlando took out his iPad and turned it on. He leaned back, then fell sideways, resting his head against Phoebe’s shoulder. Her breathing was quick, raspy.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “No crying. Not yet. We’re not done.”

“I heard gunshots down there.”

“Hey, we’ll find out how they are. Just a moment. Let me get my strength.”

“You do that,” she said. “I need to
see
.”

Behind them, the Great Pyramid glowed brightly, dwindling in their window before they turned, and Cairo’s choppy hills, crammed with homes, stores and museums, took its place.

“Okay, but—”

Just then, the iPad beeped. Groaning, Orlando sat up, opened to the screen and blinked at it for a long time before cursing.

“What?” Phoebe said, looking over. Her eyes focused and her brain slowly perceived the image. “What is that?”

Orlando could barely breathe. “It’s the program I’ve been running.”

“Jeez, Orlando. Which one? Your Morpheus Initiative work, or something related to finding the perfect World of Warcraft character, some blend of mage, warrior and thief?”

“The head,” he whispered. “The crown,
the program!
”

“I thought we gave up on that after Antarctica.”

“I never give up.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “You know that.”

“Okay, so what was this program?”

“The usual. I had it searching all known images and visuals for a match to the drawings our group had done. You know, the pictures of the head buried in sand-like stuff, crown partially revealed. Unknown size and specs.”

“Yes, I know. The only match was in Antarctica. The fake Montross planted, knowing we’d find it.”

“Not true,” Orlando said. “There were actually two other, earlier matches. Both passed over because they didn’t fit the location. But the head itself was a match.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. Why wasn’t I told?”

“Only spoke to the boss-man about it in private, and he said we’d come back to these, but they weren’t likely to be major hits at the time. Nowhere to spend our energies.”

“So, what were they?”

Orlando clicked on the upper left section of the program’s readout. An image appeared, an artist’s rendition of a giant head, severed at the neck, on a beach, being worked on by artisans. In the distance was a statue astride a circular harbor, pyramids and obelisks along the shore and a sail boat departing under its legs. It held a torch aloft.

“The Colossus of Rhodes,” Orlando said. “Another of our friends, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Itself a lighthouse, the immense Colossus collapsed in—what else—an earthquake, in 226 BCE. But its remains, so huge and impressive, stayed on the ground for over eight hundred years, a major tourist attraction.”

“What happened to the pieces?” Phoebe asked. “Where’s the head?”

“No one knows for sure. Lots of rumors about Arabs taking the remnants, melting them down or storing them somewhere. At the time, I didn’t think much of this, but I did try to RV the head. But never got anything specific. Thought we should bring it up at the next meeting, but then we got the Antarctica hit.”

“Okay, so that’s a possibility. What’s the other one?”

Orlando smiled and clicked. “This.”

“Ah,” Phoebe said, and whistled. “Lady Liberty.”

“Yep, inspired by the Colossus. Built almost exactly to its specifications in size and possibly posture.”

“Except they changed the gender.”

“Yeah, well you can’t fight progress.” He smiled. “At this point, if Caleb were here, he’d go into all sorts of conspiracy stories about Freemasons and symbols, about the significance of the dedication date, the Masonic service, and hidden purposes behind Liberty’s delivery to the new world of light and reason, yada, yada.”

“Of course,” Phoebe groaned. “And we’d all just nod and hope he got to the point. Which is . . .?”

Orlando shrugged. “No idea. The head’s still on her shoulders, and doesn’t fit our images, so we passed on this hit. Although, I think it might still be worth a look. Maybe there’s something there.”

“Maybe,” Phoebe urged, leaning in. She clicked on the back button, returning to the first image that had filled the screen. “So what’s this?”

“That,” he said slowly, “is new. Hit Number Three.”

“It’s . . .” Phoebe said, squinting, “small. Can you enlarge it?”

“Hang on.” He expanded the magnification, and the view increased, the details solidifying. It appeared to be a photograph taken from high above, of a desert with boulders, rocks and mountains, a desolate plain. Except there was something imbedded in the desert floor. Something half in shade, with a mouth, an outline of a crown, and an eye staring back at them.

“I’ve seen this before somewhere. That’s a face?”

Orlando nodded. “If you believe the nutcases out there. The same people who see the Virgin Mary in potato chips and Elvis in some guy’s liver spots.”

“But—”

“Yeah,” said Orlando grimly, now taking the pointer and decreasing magnification.
Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

“Jeez.”

“Yeah,” Orlando said again. “You see, back in China, waiting for you guys at that mausoleum, I had the idea of expanding my search, looking for matches . . . elsewhere.”

“You expanded it all right,” Phoebe said, staring along with him at the reddish globe set against the stars.

“It’s—”

“Yeah,” he repeated, one more time, incredulous.

“Mars.”

END OF BOOK TWO

For a preview of Book Three of the

Morpheus Initiative, read on.

And so begins

The Cydonia Objective

Prologue

Nuremburg, Germany – April 30, 1945

The three American tanks rumbled through the devastation, drove around Panzer tanks decimated from the early morning Allied air strike, and crunched over the wreckage without slowing down. Buildings were still smoldering, entire housing blocks flattened. Locals moved about the wreckage, calling for loved ones and searching for valuables. Dogs barked, children ran fleeing from the invading tanks, and a pall of thick black smoke hung suspended between the jagged rooftops and the steel-gray sky.

The Tanks continued along their determined course, following narrowed streets, heading for the southwestern corner of the city. Speeding there, in fact. Despite the lack of any sort of resistance, they seemed to be on an urgent mission.

The objective soon became clear: a small church. With one needle-like steeple, St. Katherine’s was a prime example of gothic architecture with yawning archways and romantic columns. Badly burnt, but otherwise structurally undamaged in the raid, it stood resolute, but defenseless.

The tanks slowed, then split, moved to cover three of the sides, then stopped. Hatches opened and green-clad soldiers rushed out, climbed down the sides and rushed to set up a perimeter. They took up positions, aiming at the doors, the windows, looking for snipers.

From the center tank, two more individuals emerged. One, a large grey-haired soldier with a cigar trapped between his lips, which he promptly lit as soon as he touched the ground. He was helped down by what looked to be his aide, a smaller, bookish man with spectacles and a thick crop of sweaty red hair.

One of the soldiers stood up from his kneeling position and shouted back, “Church secure, General Patton, sir! Do we move in?”

Patton drew in a huge breath of cigar smoke, let it sit in his lungs, then expelled it slowly. He stared at the church without blinking. A long, slow stare. Then he said quietly to his aide, “You’re sure it’s here?”

The red-haired man thought for a moment before responding. At least, it seemed he was thinking. His eyes closed, his head lowered, and his fist to his forehead. Sweat broke out along his temples and he started to tremble. Patton pulled his attention from the church to study the man with rapt admiration.

Finally, the red-haired man nodded and opened his eyes. “A specially constructed vault below the foundation. Reinforced walls and steel doors that you will need to blow up to get inside. It’s inside the vault, in a crate, hidden among the church ornaments and other stolen relics.”

Patton smiled. “Guards?”

“Two just outside the door to the vault room. One inside, guarding a golden box near the back. Inside is a false relic. Don’t be fooled.”

His smile widening, Patton strode forward. He waved to his soldiers and pointed to the front door. As the men raced ahead, Patton slowed, then turned back. The red-haired man still stood in place, hugging his arms, shaking slightly as the wind blew smoke trails around him. A plane roared overhead and he winced with the sound. He met Patton’s gaze and his dry lips parted.

“You’ll keep it safe?”

Patton drew another breath from the cigar and thought before answering. “Better than Hitler did, the egomaniac. To think, he actually let it out of his grasp. And look what happened.”

The red-haired man nodded. “So it’s true? They’re advancing on his bunker in Berlin?”