“Water under pressure?” she asked loud enough to be heard by the rating. Markin nodded. “Yes.”
“Ma’am,” the rating called out. “I heard something like this in school in Orlando.”
“And?” Lockhart and Markin waited.
“The instructors had a tape of what they called prototype sounds. They said the Russians had a new type of sub on the boards that would utilize water-pressure propulsion. This is a very similar sound.”
Lockhart frowned. “Range?”
“One hundred and sixty-five miles,” Markin said.
“You just said 175,” Lockhart said. “And now it’s 165, 164,” he corrected.
“What can move underwater that quickly?” she demanded. “Nothing man-made,” Markin said.
“How fast is the contact?” she asked. “Almost eighty-seven.”
“Oh, my God,” Lockhart muttered under her breath so no one could hear. “Any satellite scan?” she called out.
“Positive scan on both targets,” another sailor responded.
Lockhart waited. “Report,” she finally ordered when he didn’t say anything further.
“Uh — ma’am, both have the same ID tag. The Springfield. But—” he paused, then blurted out—“the Springfield can’t move that fast. And how can there be two?” Captain Lockhart’s face was hard as she picked up the hot line that connected her to fleet headquarters.
Feeling had been returning to Mike Turcotte’s body for the past hour, from his extremities inward. He’d already tried getting to his feet a dozen times to no avail. He reached up and grasped the edge of the table and tried once more. He managed to pull himself up so that he was leaning against the table.
He felt hungover, his head pounding, his body unsteady. He looked about the examining room. A clipboard was next to the sink and he went over to it. Flipping it open, he noted several medical forms — results of tests the doctor must have run, along with two pages of notes in handwriting he could hardly read. There were also several X rays clipped to it. Turcotte ripped the papers and X rays out of the clipboard and shoved them in the cargo pocket of his pants.
He went to the door, carefully opening it, and peering outside. As expected, no one was about. He moved as quickly as his pounding head would allow to the outside exit. He shoved open the steel door. It was night, a cool breeze blowing in from the surrounding desert.
A full moon had just risen above Groom Mountain and he could see relatively clearly. He saw the massive hangar doors set into the side of the mountain. Turcotte walked over and entered the hangar. A bouncer was missing and he felt a moment’s relief, knowing the others had most likely escaped, then he saw the dark form lying still on the concrete floor. Not wanting to, he forced himself to go over. A pool of blood had spread out beneath the body.
Turcotte ignored the blood as he knelt and turned the slight figure over, knowing who it was before he saw her face. He scooped Che Lu in his arms and walked out of the hangar, across the runway, and into the desert.
Aspasia’s Shadow slowly sat up and looked about the guardian chamber. The golden glow from the guardian bathed the entire area with its light. Six motionless Marines stood guard in the shadows near the tunnel. He lifted his arm and put his new hand in front of his face. He flexed his fingers, stretching the new skin.
He laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. He reached up and removed the ka from around his neck. He would never need it again. Millennia of dying and being reborn were over. He was immortal and this body would be his forever. The Grail, the carrot that the Airlia had held in front of humans from the very beginning, was his to do with as he willed.
He went to the guardian and made contact, checking the status of his forces. All was progressing well with the fleet. And there was an acknowledgment from his man in Iran, indicating preparations were going forth to seize the second mothership and Master Guardian. His team heading toward Everest was on schedule.
Perfect. It was time to let the humans know their options. He went to the tables holding the equipment that had been abandoned by the United Nations when they evacuated the island. He turned on a computer that had direct satellite contact with the UN.
Turcotte rode the elevator into the underground bunkers. His fatigue shirt was soaked with sweat and his hands covered with sand that had stuck to the perspiration. Dried blood encrusted the lower part of his pants.
A few lights were still working, flickering, showing the destruction that had been wreaked. The silence was unsettling. As he expected, the place was abandoned and Turcotte quickly retraced his steps to the surface.
Turcotte went to the runway tower and broke into the supply area. He grabbed a survival vest, checked the small radio to make sure it was working, ensured his SATPhone was still in his pocket, loaded up on a half dozen full canteens, then left Area 51 and headed out into the desert.
The men and women chosen for UN Alien Oversight Committee (UNAOC) had done little in the last several months other than observe. This was not because they lacked the will, but more that they lacked the knowledge of what was really going on in order to make a coherent decision. Added to that indecision was worry over the infiltration of their governments and the influences of Guides, Ones Who Wait, and the various human contingents that proclaimed one side or the other of the Airlia civil war to be the one to support.
While every member country of the United Nations had signed an agreement to abide by the decisions of the committee, the reality was that, as had been true for the history of the United Nations, countries only followed the agreement when it suited their interests.
Every country was supposed to surrender any alien artifacts they had in their possession to the UNAOC. So far, not a single item had been turned over. A large row had already erupted over the refusal of the Israelis to release artifacts, including the Ark, that they had taken from the Mission inside Mount Sinai. Additionally, the militaries of all countries were ordered to coordinate with the UNAOC security panel. A few token phone calls had been made, but not a single troop, plane, or ship had been placed under UN command. All eyes were on the Pacific and the surviving American fleet there.
Given that the previous head of UNAOC had been assassinated by a Guide, the committee members not only felt powerless, they also felt threatened.
As they gathered at the conference table to listen to Aspasia’s Shadow’s message, the absence of the Chinese member was noted.
The screen on the laptop in front of each UNAOC member came alive with Aspasia’s Shadow’s pale face. He wasted no time on pleasantries.
“You have called me Al-Iblis. You humans have called me many names over the millennia in many places. I am Aspasia’s Shadow, but I am more than he ever was. You killed him and stopped his space fleet, but you cannot stop me. You can only join me and reap the benefits I offer. Despite your transgressions I will forgive you. I am going to tell you the truth so that you know the reality of your tenuous situation.
“I possess the Grail. It holds the secret of immortality. I offer that to those who join me. I offer the might of my fleet and my other forces to those who join me. You know you cannot penetrate my shields or defend against my nanovirus or my Guides. You are powerless. Report back to your governments. Tell them to face the truth.
“You have a choice now. Join me or fight me or stand aside. But realize that your time is short. And Artad is awake. He has already contacted the mainland Chinese government. They have chosen to side with him. They will die because of that decision.