The Grail

CHAPTER 3

Flat brown desert floor, broken abruptly by steep, rock-strewn mountains, made for uninviting terrain in the southern center of Nevada. A hundred and twenty miles northwest of Las Vegas, nestled between seven-thousand-foot mountain ranges, lay Groom Lake. It might have once held water, but now the flat lakebed contained a seven-mile-long concrete runway, the longest in the world. Many had thought that Area 51 had been located at Groom Lake because of the remote and desolate nature of the surrounding countryside — a good place to hide things the government didn’t want prying eyes to see.

Actually, the opposite was true. In the early days of World War II, military reconnaissance teams found hidden in a massive cavern under Groom Mountain something so startling and foreign to the planet that the government immediately knew it had to keep the discovery secret. The alien object was so immense — over a mile long and a quarter mile at its widest — that there was no way to move the alien mothership, at least until the drive system for it was figured out.

As more alien artifacts were discovered, the greatest being the nine bouncers, the installation at Groom Lake grew in size and secrecy. The site was labeled on the Nellis Air Base reservation map as Area 51. Until the uncovering of Majestic-12, the ruling body at Area 51 since its founding, the United States government never admitted the base even existed, even though photos of the surface facilities were posted on the Internet. But today, as Mike Turcotte could see out of the side of the bouncer, secrecy seemed to be the last thing on anyone’s mind.

News vans were parked all around the edge of the Groom Lake runway. It was a far cry from the days when even climbing one of the mountains surrounding the Area 51 complex could land a person in jail or much worse if they were picked up by Landscape, the inner security force of Majestic-12. Despite the presence of the media at the previously highly classified facility, Mike Turcotte felt that they were as far from the “truth” as they had ever been.

The bouncer floated down the side of Groom Mountain, the large hangar doors sliding open. As soon as it touched down, Turcotte was first out of the hatch, followed by Yakov, Che Lu, and the rest of the A-Team. Mualama’s sight had slowly returned to him during the flight, and he followed the old Chinese woman off.

As Turcotte appeared, reporters and cameramen flowed through the open doors, surrounding the bouncer. Sliding down the side of the bouncer, Turcotte was met with a thicket of microphone booms. He knifed his way through, trying to reach Major Quinn, who was standing behind the reporters clamoring for information about what was going on with the Airlia, the Guides, The Ones Who Wait, The Mission, the nuclear explosion in China, and Lisa Duncan’s location.

“Get these people out of here!” Turcotte yelled to Quinn.

The Major raised his hands and pointed at the two military police officers who were trying to control twenty times their number. “That’s all I have.” Turcotte spun about. Captain Billam was exiting the bouncer with his team behind him. Master Sergeant Boltz, the team sergeant wounded in Moscow, was being hauled out on a stretcher. Che Lu was almost hidden among the hulking team members.

“Clear this hangar,” Turcotte ordered Billam.

Seeing the hesitation in Billam’s face, Turcotte pulled his 9mm pistol from its holster. That gained him a couple of feet of space as the closest reporters and cameramen pressed back away from him.

Turcotte fired twice into the air, aiming out of the hangar toward the desert. A moment of silence descended on the crowd, followed by the curses of the media representatives, threatening lawsuits. Turcotte lowered the pistol and aimed it at the closest reporter. “You have thirty seconds to get out of this hangar.”

The reporter opened her mouth to say something, then noted the look in Turcotte’s eyes and how steady his hand was. She turned and pushed her way out of the circle. The others followed. As soon as the last one was out of the hangar, the large doors slid shut.

“What the hell is going on?” Turcotte demanded of Quinn. “Where is security?”

The major hardly looked like a warrior. Slight of build, with thinning blond hair and large glasses perched on his nose, Quinn was what Turcotte called a screen watcher — someone who sat on their ass all day and looked at computer screens. But he had been helpful in the fight against the aliens and their followers and had been an ally in the transition from Majestic-12’s secret rule at Area 51 to the present regime.

“That is our security.” Quinn indicated the two Air Police.

Turcotte had first been assigned to Area 51 to be part of the elite security force that protected its secrets. The facility had been secured by top-of-the-line personnel and equipment. Even after Majestic-12 was deposed, security had remained tight, guarding against actions by either group of Airlia minions. The goal was to prevent Area 51 from suffering the same fate as the Russian Section IV base that had been destroyed at Novaya Zemlya.

“What’s going on?” Turcotte asked.

“I had all my air police, except those two, and all my special security personnel from Landscape and Nightscape who passed the review panel, pulled on orders from the Pentagon this morning. I’ve been trying to get through to somebody — anybody — to get the orders rescinded, but there’s a lot of confusion in Washington. I’m getting a major runaround. No one knows what’s going on. I’ve backended some requests and will have more people here soon, but in the meanwhile, we have to make do with what we have.”

“I see the long arm of The Guides acting here,” Yakov said. He shrugged his large shoulders. “Or The Ones Who Wait. Both groups undoubtedly have your higher echelons of government and military thoroughly infiltrated and compromised. They want Area 51 vulnerable. They destroyed my country’s Area 51; yours is next.” The Russian had the bag over his shoulder containing what they had managed to pilfer out of the Russian Archives on their raid, minus, of course, the Spear of Destiny, which they suspected acted as a key to the lowest level of Qian-Ling.

“What about Doctor Duncan?” Quinn asked.

“Mualama knows where she is,” Turcotte said. He wanted the bouncer inside the secure hangar before they off-loaded the team member’s body. “Let’s seal this place.”

Quinn gave the necessary orders and the bouncer floated in, the large doors sliding shut behind it. Then Quinn gestured for them to follow him toward the large freight elevator that led to the Cube — command and control central.

“We’ve been looking at Burton’s manuscript. It’s in a language no one can recognize.”

“Hakkadian,” Mualama said. The African archaeologist had spent most of his life following the path of Sir Richard Francis Burton around the world, finding clues here and there that led him further in pursuit of a “lost” manuscript of Burton’s. Mualama had told them that it detailed all that Burton had learned of the aliens and their minions on the planet.

“What exactly is Hakkadian?” Turcotte asked.

“A distant forerunner of Arabic,” Mualama answered. “Last spoken in ancient Babylon. Burton was an extremely amazing man. He spoke twenty-nine languages fluently.”

“The only things we could read were the foreword and a letter put on top of the manuscript by his wife,” Quinn said. “Pretty amazing stuff.”

“Where exactly in Giza is Duncan?” Turcotte pressed.

“Directly under the Great Sphinx.” Mualama quickly told them of the Black Sphinx and the chamber hidden inside.

The doors to the elevator opened and they walked toward the Cube. They paused as a red light suddenly began flashing.

“What’s that?” Turcotte asked.

“Security sensor,” Quinn said. “One of you is bugged.”

Turcotte’s first instinct was to look to Che Lu. She had been under the control of The Ones Who Wait at Qian-Ling, although he wasn’t certain why they would want to bug her. It wasn’t as if the location of Area 51 was a great secret anymore.

“Go through one at a time, please,” Quinn said.

Turcotte went through first and there was no alarm. Che Lu was second, and again, nothing. Mualama followed and still no red light. Turcotte stared hard at the Russian — after all they’d been through to have this happen — but again he had the same question as with Che Lu: why? And when could this have happened?

Yakov stepped through and the red light began flashing. Quinn picked up a small handheld detector and ran it over the Russian’s body. He paused when he was at the back of Yakov’s neck. “It’s there.”

“How?” Turcotte asked.

“Whatever it is,” Yakov said, “it was not there last time we came through here. So it must have been placed on me since then.”

“Katyenka,” Turcotte said. It was hard to forget someone who had tried to kill him. She had been a GRU operative, Yakov’s former lover, but actually working for The Ones Who Wait who had ambushed them in Moscow.

Yakov nodded. “Yes. She had opportunity and reason.” He took his heavy coat off.

Turcotte shook his head and tried to make light of it. “I can’t leave you alone for a moment, can I?”

“It makes sense. It is how those soldiers found us in the Archives,” Yakov said. He ran his fingers through the thick lining near the collar, then paused before pulling out a small black object about a quarter inch long. “Here it is. Nothing very exotic. Standard GRU issue. Range about three miles, but very intense so they could track us through the tunnels under Moscow.” He tossed it on the floor and smashed it with his boot. “Shall we continue?”

Turcotte paused, considering the Russian. It was indeed most likely the bug had been planted by Katyenka, but there had been much deception and betrayal since he’d arrived at Area 51 and he could not be certain. For a moment, Yakov’s arguments to leave Egypt and come back here took a slightly different angle.

“Are you coming?” Yakov and the others were waiting.

Turcotte shook himself out of his suspicions and followed as they headed to the Cube. The main room of the Cube measured eighty feet by a hundred. Banks of computer screens gave it a similar appearance to mission control at NASA, but Turcotte noticed that three quarters of the chairs in front of those screens were empty.

“More ordered cuts in personnel,” Quinn said, noting his look. “Someone’s really trying to hamstring us. Again, I’m trying to backdoor requests.”

Turcotte knew Quinn was an expert at manipulating government and military bureaucracy. With the proper passwords, the right communication channels, and experience, he could get just about anything eventually. It was something he had done while working for Majestic-12—a valuable asset that both Duncan and Turcotte had thought necessary to keep at Area 51.

Turcotte turned his attention to the front wall where a twenty-foot-wide-by-ten-high screen displayed a plethora of information. “What’s hot?” Turcotte asked, trying to make sense of the various displays. Quinn sat down in the chair that used to belong to the head of Majestic, or MJ-12 as some called it. It was on a raised dais in the back of the room and oversaw everything that went on. There was the quiet hum of machinery along with the constant slight hiss of filtered air being blown into the room. The entire complex rested on huge shocks and was hung from large springs, allowing it to sustain a nuclear surface blast. Turcotte had just prevented such an incident by bargaining with The Ones Who Wait, giving them the Spear of Destiny.

“The NSA is tracking that flying dragon thing that holds The Ones Who Wait who took the key from you in Mongolia,” Quinn said.

“That ‘dragon thing’ is called Chi Yu,” Che Lu said. “It is part of the lore of my land. When the yellow emperor Shi Huangdi ruled the northern part of China, Chi Yu ruled in the south. They fought and Shi Huangdi subdued the beast and took it prisoner.”

“Which in reality—” Turcotte began, but Che Lu cut him off.

“I believe that Shi Huangdi was Artad, one of the alien leaders. And Chi Yu must be a machine fashioned by the other side — The Guides — to fight and terrify so many years ago. Shi Huangdi captured it during their battles and it must have been inside Qian-Ling.”

“Is this machine back at Qian-Ling now?” Yakov asked.

“Negative.” Quinn typed into the keyboard and then pointed at the main board. A map of eastern Africa appeared. “See the red dot? It stopped at Ngorongoro Crater briefly and is now heading northeast on a track that will take it to Qian-Ling. It’s assumed the Chinese will pick it up on radar and try to intercept. ETA at Chinese border in eighteen minutes.”

“Why did it go to Ngorongoro Crater?” Yakov wondered.

“I found the scepter key there,” Mualama said. “And history records Burton spent quite a bit of time in East Africa exploring.”

“It will be interesting to see how my government reacts to these events,” Che Lu said, which earned her a hard look from Turcotte. On the international scene, China had always been an enigma, and with the advent of the discovery of the Airlia the country had cut itself off completely. Because of all the betrayals Turcotte had seen recently, a small part of him had to wonder if it was just coincidence that Che Lu had opened up Qian-Ling just after the Airlia had been discovered. And then Mualama had uncovered the key right after that. And Yakov had been wearing a bug when he arrived here.

“If The Ones Who Wait bring Artad up from the lowest level,” Turcotte said, “it will be interesting to see how everyone in the world reacts. We still don’t know the truth about what happened among the Airlia.” He turned to Quinn. “What else?”

The major hit another command. The map changed to show the southeast Pacific. “The shield is still protecting Easter Island. What remains of Task Force 78, with the addition of Task Force 79 and the aircraft carrier USS Stennis, has backed off to a range of three hundred kilometers north of the island. We’ve lost all contact with the submarine USS Springfield. It is assumed it has been taken inside the shield and is lost to us. Official policy now is to stand off and watch, which doesn’t please the Navy much.

“However,” Quinn continued, “the last transmission from Springfield had some interesting data in it.” He hit a switch and a large map of Easter Island appeared on the screen. “We think they found a hole in the shield wall. When the Washington hit the island, it tore up a big part of the ocean floor as it bottomed out. We think there is a very small gap in the shield where it cut through the floor.”

“Can we get in?” Turcotte asked.

“Possibly,” Quinn said. “But, as I said, official policy is to stand off and do nothing.”

“That doesn’t do Kelly Reynolds any good,” Turcotte said. “Can you get some SEALs?”

“I can’t even get us MPs at the moment,” Quinn said.

“That’s because the Pentagon knows who’s asking and what they’re for,” Turcotte said. “We still have the ST-8 clearance by presidential decree, right?”

Quinn nodded. ST-8 was the highest clearance possible and meant that orders issued using it had to be followed as if they came from the National Command Authority.

“Then I’ll just issue an order to get us some SEALs.”

“To do what?” Quinn asked.

“Infiltrate Easter Island.” Turcotte pointed at the screen. “It’s a job the SEALs are trained for. Go in under the shield, see what’s going on, rescue Kelly, and get back. I’ll bet there’s a SEAL team on board one of the ships of Task Force 79. Plus, I don’t think the Navy will put up too much of a fight over the mission. I’ve got a feeling they want to know what’s happening to the Washington and their people.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Quinn said.

“And the Giza Plateau?” Turcotte had already moved on to more pressing issues.

“Satellite imagery shows it wrapped up even tighter with troops since your assault. The Egyptian government has closed it off and is complaining to whoever will listen that the United States violated their sovereignty.”

“We have to go back,” Turcotte said.

“That might be difficult,” Quinn noted.

“Of course it will be difficult,” Turcotte said. “But there’s always a way.”

“What about the manuscript?” Mualama said. Quinn stood. “It’s in the conference room.”

Turcotte paused. “I need a minute.”

Quinn nodded and went into the conference room. Yakov put a large paw on Turcotte’s shoulder. “Are you all right, my friend?”

“No,” Turcotte said.

“I would have been worried if you said you were,” Yakov said. “No one is all right. Only the smart people know that though. Especially now.”

“Especially now,” Turcotte acknowledged. “Give me just a minute and I’ll join you.”

“Da.”

Turcotte waited until Yakov and Che Lu disappeared. He walked down the hallway to the latrine. There was no one inside. He sagged back against the door, feeling the exhaustion of constant tension in every fiber of his being. He slid down to his knees, then sat on the floor, his back still against the door. He put his right hand out, opened it wide, and stared at the scarred flesh. He could see the pregnant woman who died just before he grabbed the red hot muzzle of his team leader’s gun in Germany as if it had just happened. Another second earlier and she — and her unborn child — would still be alive.

The fingers of his left hand traced over the scar tissue in the palm of his right hand, remembering his failure. And his most recent failure had cost the lives of three men. Finally, he stood. He shoved the door open and went to the conference room. Inside was one other person beside Quinn, Mualama, Che Lu, and Yakov. Larry Kincaid was their authority on space operations. He was looking through a pile of photographs. Kincaid stood and shook hands as he came in.

Quinn stood near the end of the table and pushed a button on a lectern. A piece of the wood paneling slid up, revealing a six-by-six-foot video display. Turcotte sat in the leather chair at the head of the conference table, Yakov to his right, Che Lu to his left, Mualama next to her. The screen turned white, and then two lines scrolled up to the center and stopped.

“This is the prologue to Burton’s manuscript which we’ve scanned into the computer,” Quinn said.

Quinn leaned over and indicated a key on the keyboard embedded under the top of the table at Turcotte’s position. “You hit this to scroll up.” Turcotte pressed it.

Turcotte hit the scroll key, but nothing happened. “That’s it?” He turned to Quinn.

“That’s all of Burton’s prologue,” Quinn said. “Inserted behind those first pages were several written in a different hand.”

Mualama leaned forward. “Do you know of Sir Richard Burton? His life? The controversies surrounding him?”

“Not really,” Turcotte replied. He was anxious to be moving, to be planning a second assault on Giza and rescue Duncan. He didn’t understand Mualama’s fascination with an old manuscript.

“Burton translated the Kama Sutra,” Mualama said. “And the Tale of the Thousand and One Nights. He was more than a writer and translator of other’s written works. He was a famous explorer. A man who dared to travel where others feared. He searched for the source of the Nile hidden in the heart of Africa. It has been widely believed that his wife, Isabel, burned a manuscript when he died.” Mualama pointed at the screen. “It appears she burned the only copy of this manuscript.”

“The next few pages tell what happened on the night Burton died,” Quinn said, “and why she did what she did. It is most intriguing.”

“Put it on the screen,” Turcotte ordered. The writing that appeared was written with black ink, a thin spidery lettering:

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 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 langauge 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 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.”