The Rock

Who Dares Wins Publishing

PO Box 392

Langley, WA 98260

www.whodareswinspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE ROCK

COPYRIGHT © 1995 by Bob Mayer, Updated 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author (Bob Mayer and Who Dares Wins Publishing) except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Books by Bob Mayer

THE JEFFERSON ALLEGIANCE

DUTY, HONOR, COUNTRY A Novel from West Point to Civil War

BLACK OPS SERIES

BLACK OPS: THE GATE

BLACK OPS: THE LINE

BLACK OPS: THE OMEGA MISSILE

BLACK OPS: THE OMEGA SANCTION

LOST GIRLS

CHASING THE GHOST

SHADOW WARRIOR: SECTION 8

SHADOW WARRIOR: THE CITADEL

BODYGUARD OF LIES

GREEN BERET SERIES

EYES OF THE HAMMER

DRAGON SIM-13

CUT-OUT

SYNBAT

Z

Non-Fiction Books by Bob Mayer

WHO DARES WINS: THE GREEN BERET WAY TO CONQUER FEAR AND SUCCEED

THE NOVEL WRITER’S TOOLKIT

WRITE IT FORWARD: FROM WRITER TO PUBLISHED AUTHOR

Books by Bob Mayer writing as Robert Doherty

AREA 51 SERIES

AREA 51

AREA 51 THE REPLY

AREA 51 THE MISSION

AREA 51 SPHINX

AREA 51 THE GRAIL

AREA 51 EXCALIBUR

AREA 51 THE TRUTH

AREA 51 NOSFERATU

AREA 51 THE LEGEND

ATLANTIS SERIES

ATLANTIS

ATLANTIS BERMUDA TRIANGLE

ATLANTIS: DEVIL’S SEA

ATLANTIS: GATE

ATLANTIS: ASSAULT

ATLANTIS: BATTLE FOR ATLANTIS

THE ROCK

PSYCHIC WARRIOR

PSYCHIC WARRIOR: PROJECT AURA

NY Times bestselling author Bob Mayer has over 50 books published.  He has sold over four million books and is in demand as a team-building, life-change, and leadership speaker and consultant.  Bob graduated from West Point and served in the military as a Special Forces A-Team leader and a teacher at the JFK Special Warfare Center & School.  He teaches novel writing and improving the author via his Write It Forward program.  He is the Co-Creator of Who Dares Wins Publishing.   For more information see
www.bobmayer.org
or
www.WhoDaresWinsPublishing.com

THE ROCK

by

Robert Doherty

writing as

Bob Mayer

Prologue 

The chamber contained enough energy to destroy the planet five times over. More than two kilometers in diameter, one kilometer from floor to ceiling, and three times that depth under the planet's surface, it echoed with the crackle of directed power beams, all focused on a black sphere dancing in the center, just above the metal floor. The sphere was fifty meters in diameter and did not appear to be made of any solid substance, but rather contracted and expanded in a rhythmic pattern.

Halfway up the far wall, a half-kilometer from the sphere, a recessed window slid open, revealing a control room lined with consoles. Three figures dressed in long black flowing robes stood. Wires flowed from the back of the hoods to the glowing screen in front of them on which the thoughts each wished to express were displayed in a manner all could understand. "It is time for run four-five," the figure on the left communicated.

"Proceed," the one in the center ordered.

The power beams shifted across the color spectrum as the levels were increased. The sphere slowly began to change its own shade, the pitch-black gradually changing to gray then fading away until an image appeared, incongruous among the technology and power of the cave: an aircraft hangar, the edges abruptly cut off where they met the edge of the power of the sphere. Inside the hangar, an old man in a military style uniform waited patiently.

"What is the location?" The figure in the center asked.

"Coordinates two-three-five-eight dash four-eight-three-four. A town called Leesburg, in the state of Virginia, in the country called United States."

"Local date, time group?"

"Nineteen ninety-one. The twenty-second day of the sixth month. Two forty-seven local time."

"Continue tracking."

A military truck suddenly appeared in the sphere, bumper first, the entire vehicle filling out as it entered the power frame. A man jumped off the truck, wearing unmarked black fatigues and carrying a weapon. He greeted the general with a handshake. "It's good to be back, sir."

The general slapped him on the shoulder. "Good to have you back, Captain Hawkins. I've got the transcript of your in-flight debriefing and the President is very satisfied with the results of your mission."

The man nodded wearily and watched as his three men threw their rucksacks onto the floor of the hangar and secured their weapons with the unit armorer. "I'd like to give the men some time off, sir."

The general nodded. "Take a week and then give me a call. I'll put Richman's team on standby alert."

"Thanks, sir."

"Damn good job, man." With a slap on the back the general was gone, walking out of the range the sphere could see. The captain gave his men the good news and the figures dispersed one by one until only he was left standing there. He finally moved out himself, heading toward the hangar door that glimmered in the light of the sphere.

***

The figure on the right gave the facts. "Hawkins, Robert D. An officer in the military. Commander of a special-operations team. Program seven-one-three-two. Probability seven-six. Terminal impact projected six-three."

"He's the object. Track him," the figure in the center ordered. Around the hub of the chamber, the machinery hastened to follow the command in an intricately organized dance of power and technology.

***

The sphere flickered slightly, the image going out of focus, then Hawkins reappeared in the parking lot outside the hangar, walking toward a pickup truck, a young woman leaning against the front bumper. A smile blossomed across her face as she spotted Hawkins and she ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.

"I'm so glad you're back!"

Hawkins held the woman in his arms for almost thirty seconds. Finally, he stepped back and looked at her. "I missed you, Mary."

"Well, you're back and you don't have to miss me for a while," she replied, sliding her arm through his and pulling him toward the pickup. "Let's go home. I've got something special planned for you."

"Time line?" the center figure inquired.

"Three minutes, thirteen seconds," the figure on the right answered.

"Keep us on line."

With Hawkins at the wheel, the pickup truck rolled out of the parking lot.

"Keep tracking!"

The power being fed to the sphere surged as the automated machinery struggled to maintain pace with the truck. The vehicle appeared to be stationary, caught in the center of the sphere, the two-lane road sliding beneath its wheels, the countryside suddenly appearing at one end of the sphere and flickering by to disappear at the other end.

The entire chamber shuddered, ever so slightly. The center figure's hood twitched upward toward the metal-reinforced ceiling. "Report?"

There was a slight pause and then the figure on the left spoke. "A strike on the fourth perimeter. Magnitude three point three. Security is holding at level eight. Risk factor up to one-three. We are secure."

Attention returned to the sphere. Every few seconds the image would fade and then regain its sharpness as the technicians struggled to keep track of the vehicle.

"Time line?"

"One minute, ten seconds."

"Maintain."

The pickup truck turned onto a two-lane highway.

Mary Hawkins leaned across the front seat and nuzzled up to her husband's right side. White teeth flashed as she nipped his earlobe.

"Hey, that's not fair." Hawkins laughed.

"Thirty seconds."

Hawkins let go of the stick shift and wrapped his right arm around his wife, pulling her tight against his body.

"Ten seconds," the pickup truck was rounding a curve in the sphere, the road appearing to the watchers as it did to the man behind the wheel.

Hawkins reacted, slamming his foot on the brake and twisting the steering wheel with his left hand. The right front end of the pickup truck smashed into the rear of the stalled tractor-trailer rig with an explosion of glass and metal. Hawkins was thrown forward against the seat belt and just as abruptly slammed back against the seat in recoil. Mary Hawkins was ripped out of the desperate grip of her husband's right hand and her head thrust into the windshield, forming a flower of cracked glass as her chest crumbled against the unyielding plastic of the dashboard.

"Call an ambulance!" Hawkins screamed as he slowly pulled Mary back and laid her down on the seat. She was unconscious, her breathing coming in labored gasps. Hawkins gently slipped his hand around her head and cringed as he felt the blood slowly flowing out. He carefully pressed his hand up against the wound and held her head still.

The tableau appeared frozen in the sphere. The figure in the center finally spoke. "End four-five. Proceed with four-six."

The image of Hawkins holding his wife in his arms faded as the sphere turned black and the power shifted.

INITIATION 

Vredefort Dome, South Africa

17 DECEMBER 1995, 0315 LOCAL

17 DECEMBER 1995, 0115 ZULU

With each mile traversed Tommy Meduba felt the death force rise up in him. Lona leaned over and crooned his name and whispered of warriors and revenge as the sweat slowly dripped down his body, splashing unseen onto the floor of the truck. Blood pounded in his temples, the sound of the truck's engine faint in his ears.

Lona had searched him out and found him in the gutter yesterday, covered with dirt, sweat, and blood. His brother was dead and there was no family left to him, so he'd bought eight cartons of Bantu beer and tried to obliterate reality. Lona and Nabaktu had offered him another way-a warrior's way- that would strike back at the killers of his brother.

The drugs she'd given him had done something to his body. He'd never felt like this before. He could barely feel the bumps as the truck negotiated the thin road leading to the back entrance to the mine, but he could acutely feel Lona's hand on his arm. He wanted to avoid her dark eyes staring intently at him and not hear the words she mouthed. He ran his eyes around the enclosed interior, taking in the large crate squatting in the center, but again his eyes flickered back up to hers and his ears listened as if he had no control.

"Soon you will be the greatest warrior. Your name will be spoken of across the land with the deepest respect. You are a man-not an animal. You must die a man's death, not lie in the street like a dog. You must avenge your brother."

A small part of Tommy's brain wanted to think, but it would require too much energy. The truck came to a halt with a squeal of brakes. The tarp covering the tailgate was thrown back and a large figure dressed in traditional robes appeared, silhouetted against the night sky. "It is time to go." Lona leaned over and placed something in front of Tommy's face. He snorted reflexively and felt the power kick in.

Tommy looked from Lona to Nabaktu. Their eyes were locked on him, willing for him to move. He stood and stepped out of the truck.

Security was oriented inward at the entrance and that was logical. The powers-that-be were concerned with what could be taken out of the mine, not with what could be taken in. The long line of dust-covered workers emerging like moles from their twelve-hour shift below the surface was subjected to strip searches by guards with cold hands and blank eyes. At random, a few men were having their bodily cavities invaded by gloved fingers, probing and searching. Behind the initial row of security, personnel looking for the gold were other guards watching the searchers. And above the second rank were video cameras, overseeing the watchers. And all that redundancy was logical, too, as this toothless opening less than eighty miles southwest of Johannesburg led to great coiled intestines of gold and uranium-laced rock.

Tommy had been working here for eight years, six days a week, in twelve-hour shifts-long enough that any other existence before the mine was forgotten. He smothered his hatred and tried to avoid looking at the guards as he went past. That most of them were black also didn't matter. Some of these same guards had beaten his brother to death two days ago after finding a piece of rock in his pant cuff. No matter that it could have gotten there by accident. No matter that it contained no gold. The rule was that nothing came out that hadn't come in. When done they'd thrown his brother's body into the putrid shaft of an abandoned mine where all the other bodies had been dumped over the years. That the guards who had beaten his brother to death were Xhosa did matter very much to Tommy--they were the favorite of the ANC and the change in power had brought little change to the mines-and the Sothos, of which Tommy was a member, migrant workers from Lesotho, still suffered at the hands of the overseers.

Night or day mattered naught in the black holes of the mines. The caged electric lights strung along the rock roof cast a dingy glow on the dark, perspiring bodies below as the line of arrivals trudged forward. Their shift started at three, but they weren't paid for the time spent getting there-only the toil of their hands started the clock.

Tommy Meduba was pouring sweat also as he drove the small electric cart at a walking pace down the right side of the double set of rails. He was on the ground level leading to the massive elevator that would carry the cart and forty workers down into the depths. Tommy was sweating not so much from the thick air and scorching heat, though. Large beads of perspiration beaded his skin, forming rivers that gravity dragged down his body, because this was to be his last night alive and he hadn't assimilated that concept.

No guard spared him or his cart more than a glance as he rumbled onto the wrought-iron floor of the elevator. With a slight start, and then a steady stuttering, the platform descended. Dank rock walls on four sides guided them straight down. For twenty-four minutes, at a steady pace of more than four hundred and seventy feet per minute, they went down. They had to switch elevators twice and use horizontal tunnels that pushed them more to the southwest. More than two and a quarter miles into the earth. Straight to the heart of the richest vein of gold and uranium in the world: the Red Streak, a treasure trove that angles under the mystifying geological feature known as Vredefort Dome, so many kilometers directly above.

Never before had a mine been dug so deep and so directly under the Dome itself. But the upper regions had been plundered for more than a hundred years, forcing the engineers to probe and invade the earth farther down into the dark nether regions in search of their mineral gods. The Red Streak had been touched less than three years previously and had already produced two thousand tons of gold bullion and a classified amount of uranium.

Gold and uranium were the fuel that ran the South African economy, and Tommy was the cutting edge of a plan bent on stopping that engine and gaining the notice of the ruling ANC. He glanced over his shoulder with deadened eyes at the bulky metal container perched on the small flatbed. The casing was stenciled with English, Bantu, and Afrikaaner words indicating: DRILLING EQUIPMENT.

It was so easy that even Tommy's drug-infused brain felt a certain euphoria at having gotten in. Nabaktu had said it would be easy. Dear, sweet Lona had whispered it in his ear as she took his body and mind. And they had been right.

As the platform came to a final halt, Tommy fought the hysterical urge to laugh at the dulled men on either side of him as he slipped the cart's stick shift into drive and slowly rolled off the platform. A rock foyer beckoned with three dark openings less than twenty meters away. Wealth that would make most Third World nations weep with envy slithered back out of those holes and up the cables to the surface every day.

Tommy stopped the cart as the other workers disappeared into the various tunnels. He walked around to the rear of the vehicle and flipped open a panel. Nabaktu had made it as simple as possible, but still Tommy hesitated. A worm of fear pierced the core of his being as his hand hovered over the red button. Through the drugs and the scent of sex a part of his mind rebelled.

***

Twelve miles away, on the slope leading to the edge of the Witwatersrand Basin, Kamil Nabaktu swiveled his pitch-black irises from the fluorescent dial of a cheap Mickey Mouse wristwatch to Lona. "He's down by now."

The two were crouched in a thicket of scraggly, stunted trees that had never known enough water, just as Nabaktu's people had never known enough freedom since April 1652, when the first white men had set foot to stay on the southern end of the Dark Continent. They had hoped it would change in April and May of 1994, when the whites had amazingly given up power, but from their perspective, huddled in the shacks among the other tribal minorities, little had changed. In reality, the fact that the face now in charge in Pretoria was black made it all so much more galling.

"He is a weak man," Lona said. "You should have let me take it."

"No women in the mines," Nabaktu replied patiently. They'd had the argument hundreds of times. He checked his watch again. At the very least he hoped Tommy had gone down. If not, things were going to get very ugly, very soon.

Twenty men had died sneaking gold out to pay for the bomb-Tommy's brother one of them. It had taken them a year to accumulate enough. This was the end result of that blood.

"Thirty seconds."

***

Tommy looked back to the elevator, his mind scurrying through various options. He took his hand away from the red button and breathed a sigh of desperate relief. He shook his head, trying to clear the fog demons that were scampering about, dulling his brain. His eyeballs felt as if they were going to pop out of his head as he considered his position. He knew he was dead regardless. He couldn't go up. The guards would want to know why he wasn't on his shift. He couldn't go into one of the tunnels and take his normal place, because sooner or later someone would wonder what was on board the abandoned vehicle, and when they looked, there would be hell to pay.

A soft click caught his attention and Tommy glanced down. His eyes widened even more as he watched the red button slide down of its own accord into the metal plate.

Tommy never saw the plastic reach the bottom as he became a small patch of molecules vaporized by the nuclear blast that flashed into the rock around, which in turn dissolved and flowed.

***

The earth burped, Nabaktu looked at Lona and then out into the dark night again. He'd expected more. Still, it was more than two miles down.

"Let's go." He grabbed Lona's arm and they sprinted back the way they had come so many hours earlier. To the truck where the two waiting men threw questions at them. Could that small earthquake have been it? That's all? Where was the cloud?

Nabaktu ordered them silent and they sped away down toward Soweto Township to hide among the hundreds of thousands huddled there in the cheap shacks.

And below the dome, two miles down, the rocks took hours to cool and congeal; microscopic bits of foreign matter that had once been men joining the minerals and stone.

Deep Space Communication Center,

Site 14, Vicinity Alice Springs, Australia

1 7 DECEMBER 1995, 1330 LOCAL

1 7 DECEMBER 1995, 0400 ZULU

The sun bakes the sandy surface around Alice Springs, the intense heat causing the light to wave and bend. The only humans native to the Australian Outback-the Aborigines-did so through hundreds of generations of adaptation to their harsh environment. Life for them was finding water and food.

Australia is the oldest, flattest, and driest continent, equal in size to the continental United States. The Aborigines are estimated to have been there for more than thirty thousand years. For all those years they were completely isolated from the rest of the world. The ancient Egyptian empires, Rome, the Dark Ages, the Renaissance, the Industrial Age-all came and went and the Aborigines remained the same until the coming of the white man.

When the first Aborigines arrived in Australia, the center of the continent was fertile, containing lush jungles and swamps. The present Red Center was born approximately ten to twenty thousand years earlier when the world's climate changed and the land dried up. As many plant and animal species died and were blown away by the harsh weather and terrain, the Aborigines adapted and survived.

The white man was an extreme latecomer to Australia when Captain Cook landed at Botany Bay in 1770. It took another hundred years before the first white men managed to cross the Red Center, going from Adelaide in the south to Darwin in the north. In the process of accomplishing this, many white men lost their lives, wandering through the deserts in desperate search of water and relief from the brutal sun.

The overland telegraph line was built in the late nineteenth century from Darwin to Adelaide, and midway across the continent the town of Alice Springs was born to serve as a telegraph station on that line. A thousand miles from the seacoast and five hundred miles from the nearest town, Alice Springs is perhaps the most isolated town in the world. Because of that isolation, in the late 1950s, the United States, in cooperation with the Australian government, established Deep Space Communication Center (DSCC 14) sixty miles outside Alice Springs. The lack of interference from other radio emitters common in the civilized world made it an ideal spot to place the large receivers.

This afternoon in 1995 eight large dishes pointing in various attitudes were spaced evenly across the sand, the sun reflecting off the metal struts and webs of steel that reached up to the sky. Thick loops of cable ran from the base of each to a junction box set in the lee of a large, modern three-story building. In that building all the incoming data that the dishes picked up were fed into a bank of computer screens, one for each dish.

Inside the air-conditioned comfort of the DSCC control building, Major Mark Spurlock, U.S. Air Force, watched his monitors with the bored gaze of one who'd been here much too long. Spurlock's primary task was receiving classified data from the network of spy satellites that the U.S. had blanketing the planet as they passed overhead, encoding and passing on the data to the National Security Agency at Fort Meade, Maryland, on the other side of the world.