Area 51: The Grail-5 (8 page)

"You have waited too long." The woman was six steps below us when she
paused. "Your mind is gone.

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You should have come when I first summoned you. You have done much damage. The
humans search hard for the madman you have become. We cannot let them catch
you." Her voice softened. "Come with me. We can be together once more as we
were many times in the past."

"Catch me? These people? I will never—" the creature began, but there was a
solid thud and the blade slid down, lightly slicing the skin on my right arm,
but missing my throat. Richard was there! A club he had been given in the far
east by a native guide in his trembling hands. The creature dropped to its
knees, dazed from the blow.

"Come, Isabel!" Richard held out his right hand for me, the club raised in
his left. I got behind him, feeling the safe haven of his body between the
creature and me.

Aspasia's Shadow rolled on the floor, snarling, came to its feet, the knife
held out, the tip darting back and forth between Richard and the strange woman
who now climbed to the top of the landing.

"I want to live!" it screamed.

"It is time to pass on," she said. "Remember long ago? When you were Osiris
and I was Isis? We can have that again if you go with me." The woman spoke in
a soothing voice, as one would to a child, and took a step closer.

"You betrayed me!" The creature leapt with startling speed. The blade
slammed into the woman's throat, a geyser of red spraying the air. As the
creature sought to withdraw the blade her hands, unbelievably, wrapped around
his, trapping the weapon in her own body. This allowed the other three
strangers to wrestle him to the ground, on top of the dying body of their
leader, blood covering them all.

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Richard held me tight, the club ready. I could feel him shaking with
exhaustion, amazed that he could even stand, never mind defend me.

They had metal cuffs on the creature's wrists, pinning its hands behind its
back, but still it bucked and twisted, trying to get free. They grabbed its
legs and drug it down the stairs, not caring that its head thumped and bounced
on the wood.

Richard let go of me and went to the wounded woman who lay in a spreading
pool of her own blood. "They take him to The Mission, don't they?"

She didn 't seem to notice him. "It is time for me to pass on," she
whispered.

"I met you before in another form," Richard said.

Still she ignored him. And then, of all things, she reached up with her
right hand and jabbed her fingers into the wound, ripping it further open,
increasing the flow of blood. She died seconds later, revealing nothing.

One of the men reentered the house, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

He knelt over the woman's body, confirmed she was dead, then reached inside
her clothes and pulled out a small amulet, a figure of two arms raised in
prayer, with nobody between them, the same as Aspasia's Shadow had around its
neck. The man whispered some words very quickly, much like a priest at an
early mass in a hurry to get to his breakfast.

He pulled something from inside his cloak, scattering it on the body. It
was like black sand. I gasped as the skin began to disappear, the sand eating
through the flesh, the muscle, the bone. Richard tried to step closer to see
what was happening, but I held him back.

The body was gone in less than a minute; only the

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clothes remained. The man gathered the clothes, tucked them under his arms,
then looked at Richard and me.

"You have been foolish. We should have let him kill you, then taken him
back."

"Why didn 't you ? " Richard asked.

"You will be dead soon anyway. And you are famous. Your murder would cause
more like you to search. I would recommend you tell no one what you saw
tonight. Let your secret die with you, Burton. If you do not, you will only
bring grief—" here he looked at me "—to those you leave it with."

We watched as he went out the door.

I had never seen such a thing and hope never again to see it.

I must rest.

No, I must finish this. The words must be written even as Richard's body
slowly cools.

You, the reader, must know of the terror of those who seek the truth. And
the danger of this manuscript.

To finish the tale of this past evening, I took Richard back to his bed. He
never rose again. He died three hours ago in my arms, consumed by his disease
and exhausted by all that had happened. In a way, he was as happy as I had
ever seen him, the visit of the foul creature just another confirmation of all
he had learned over the years.

I waited until the servants arrived in the morning. Knowing they would see
me, I took the copy I had made of Richard's manuscript. I stood in the garden
and burned it. The servants thought me quite mad. I was still covered in
blood. My arm was bound where the blade had cut me. My eyes were wild—Richard,
my love, my life, was dead. I burned the cursed

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words. Inflames went the clues, the tales, the secrets Richard had sought for
so many years. I knew the servants would spread the tale and that would be my
only protection from others who would come as had been threatened.

But I kept the original. I owed Richard that. I could not burn his life's
passion. And I knew that someday, someone good who would fight evil would need
this story. To know about the Legends and the Truth. To know what Richard had
learned, what Richard had guessed about. What he had given his life to.

But it had to be hidden. And for that I knew where to turn. The Watchers
would hide it for me. I will give him who Richard promised the translation of
the scrolls this copy. And you who read this, wherever you are, remember
Richard and me.

Turcotte's finger was pressed down on the scroll button, but the screen didn't move. He wasn't even aware he was still pressing it until the keyboard beeped several times. Slowly he removed his finger. He turned to Yakov.

The Russian stood. "I need a drink."

Major Quinn had a bottle of vodka ready. He slid it across the table to Yakov along with several glasses. The Russian filled each one to the brim and gave one each to Turcotte, Kincaid, Quinn, Che Lu, and Mualama.

Yakov raised his glass. "To Sir Richard Francis Burton and his wife, Isabel, a woman of bravery."

Turcotte put the glass to his lips and took a deep drink. He slammed the glass back on the conference

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table, as silence reigned for a while, each lost in their thoughts about what they had just read.

"We have to go back to Giza and rescue Duncan," Turcotte finally said.

"That's our number one priority right now." He pointed at Quinn. "I want all the intelligence you can get on the plateau. And replacements for the men we lost." Then to Mualama, "I want you to write up a detailed report on how you got to the Black Sphinx—the route you took. And everything you can remember about Al-Iblis and his forces."

"What about the manuscript?" Mualama asked.

"What do you want to do with it?" Che Lu asked.

'Translate it," Mualama said.

Turcotte frowned. "I thought it was in an ancient Ian-gauge that no one knew?"

"Hakkadian," Mualama said. "I have studied it."

"Why?" Yakov asked.

"I knew Burton had studied it," Mualama said.

"Why didn't you say something before?" Turcotte asked. He could have sworn that Mualama had told them he couldn't read the manuscript earlier.

"I wasn't certain I could translate it," Mualama said. "But looking through this," he tapped the manuscript, "I think I can do a good job on it."

"You think you can do a good job?" Turcotte rubbed the left side of his head where a headache was pounding. Lisa Duncan lost in Giza, the aborted assault, Easter Island, having had to give up the spear to The Ones Who Wait. There was too much going on at once and too many conflicting signals.

Turcotte looked around the table at the group before him: Mualama, his hand on the Burton manuscript; Che Lu, her face guarded; Yakov, who met his glance and raised his eyebrows; Major Quinn, looking earnest as 65

usual, and Kincaid with his pictures of Mars. He missed Lisa.

Turcotte needed some time to sort things out. He didn't see how translating the manuscript could hurt, but he was determined to keep a closer eye on the African archaeologist.

"Write up your report on Giza first," Turcotte said. He slapped his palm on the conference table. "We are going back to Giza. And we are rescuing Lisa Duncan."

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The largest weapon system ever made by man, a Nimitz-class aircraft carrier, the USS Washington, lay beached, bow inland, on the north shore of the island.

Moai statues gazed down on the ship, which dwarfed even the largest of them, weighing over two hundred tons.

The statues appeared to be the only thing not involved in the bustle of activity taking place on board the carrier and all over the island. Small pools of black were spread out on various places aboard the ship—nanomachines, each one built at the molecular level— working on the carrier, putting it back together, in many cases making improvements over the original man-made design.

The Easter Island guardian was using nanotechnol-ogy to transform both the machines and people it had captured. Nanotechnology was molecular manufacturing. With it, the guardian could break down machinery at the smallest level and reconstitute it. It had also developed a nanovirus that could get inside the brains and bodies of humans and control them.

Along the airfield in the center of the island, men and women slaved at their tasks. Their movements were smoother now, almost natural as the current version of the nanovirus designed by the guardian computer shunted their conscious will into blind obedience to the orders broadcast by the alien machine.

The guardian used the humans to perfect the

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nanovirus. Those who did not serve the experiment well were buried, to prevent disease from hurting the ranks of the slaves.

Deep under Rapa Karu volcano, Kelly Reynolds was still pressed up against the side of the guardian. The ten-foot-high golden pyramid was now the center of all activity on the island, along with propagating the opaque shield that guarded the island from the humans and their weapons on the outside.

Kelly was thirty pounds lighter than she had been when she'd arrived on Easter Island. Even the relative stasis invoked on her body by the guardian was not enough to keep the body from breaking down, consuming itself to stay alive. The guardian was hardly aware of her presence anymore. She had served her purpose and she might serve a purpose in the future, but right now the guardian had many higher priorities.

Although the guardian was hardly aware of Kelly Reynolds, the opposite was not true. Kelly had managed to divest her body of the nanovirus by slipping a command into the guardian that went unnoticed by the higher echelons of control. Kelly could still tune in to much of what was going on with the guardian, but the flow of information and commands that her mind tapped into was like trying to take a drink from a rushing mountain stream, so much went by her that she had no clue about or could not reach. She had managed to get a single message out to Area 51, but beyond that, she had accomplished little, other than try to keep track of what the guardian was doing.

One thing was clear from what she had picked up on—the rebuilding of the Washington, the adaptation of the attack submarine Springfield, and the spread of the nanovirus among the captured humans—the guardian was preparing for all-out war. It would take time for it

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to have its forces ready, but war was coming. She knew that those outside the shield could not see what was going on, cloaked by the alien technology.

She could also pick up some of the messages the guardian was sending out, contacting other Guides, contacting The Mission, talking to the Airlia trapped on Mars, coordinating their efforts. All with one goal in mind.

All-out war was coming. And at the end, the guardian planned only to have its chosen slaves alive.

WESTERN CHINA

The Chinese air force lieutenant had never seen a similar radar signature. It was smaller than a commercial airliner, and the way it moved about sharply indicated it might very well be a helicopter. If it was, it was a very large one.

He grabbed the mike to broadcast on the emergency band in Chinese.

"Unidentified aircraft entering Chinese airspace, identify yourself. Over."

He counted silently to three, correct procedure, then keyed the mike once more. "Unidentified aircraft, you must turn back immediately or you will be shot down. This is your only warning."

The lieutenant watched the screen for three more seconds before dialing the number for the local Air Force base.

Two SU-27 fighters scrambled in response to the call, afterburners blazing.

With the recent events at Qian-Ling and the fragmenting of the world's countries

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into Isolationist and Progressive camps, the Chinese military, particularly those stationed in the predominantly western Muslim section, had been on a high degree of alert.

Lead pilot Major Fukang Jimsar's name represented the ethnic mix of the people in that part of China. A mixture of Chinese and Mongolian, he should not have been assigned to the Kashi air base. It was standing policy in the Chinese military to send personnel to assignments outside of their home area, thus ensuring it would be more likely that they would be willing to fire on rioters and keep the civil peace. Because Jimsar was one of the few pilots trained by the Russians in the SU-27, there had been little choice.