Turcotte was happy simply to have his feet underneath him, even though the top of the ridge was extremely narrow, less than a foot wide in places. He was bent over, breathing hard, trying to catch his breath, knowing from his experience climbing the side of the ridge that it was a futile effort. He reached down and extended a hand, helping Mualama up over the edge.
“Someone’s ahead of us,” Morris said.
Turcotte finally noticed the path dug into the snow.
“It’s very recent,” Morris said. “The wind yesterday would have wiped this out, so it happened during the night.”
Turcotte looked up. There was a slight hint of dawn in the air and he could barely make out the silhouette of the bulk of the mountain above them. There were no lights to indicate another party in sight. Morris checked the rope that connected all of them, making sure it was secure to each man’s harness.
“I don’t suppose it could be a party of civilian climbers,” Turcotte said.
“No.” Morris was checking Mualama’s oxygen mask. “They’d have to be insane to be climbing this time of year.”
“That makes me feel better,” Turcotte muttered. He knelt and checked the snow. A couple of people, not many. He stood and slipped the MP-5 around so that it hung across his chest. He’d removed the trigger guard so he could fire it with his gloves, but as a precaution against accidents while climbing, there was no round in the chamber. He corrected that by pulling the bolt back.
He held the MP-5 in one hand, his climbing ax in the other. “Let’s go.”
Morris moved past him and took the lead. He began climbing up the ridgeline. The incline was slightly over forty-five degrees and Turcotte found it was all he could do to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and trying to breathe. He didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder and check on Mualama — he assumed that if the line around his waist didn’t pull him back, then the African archaeologist was keeping pace.
He bumped into Morris’s back. “What’s the matter?”
Morris simply pointed at the spot his headlamp illuminated. Two men lay dead, their faces frozen in silent agony. Both had packs on their backs with climbing gear and ropes attached.
“Who are they?” Turcotte asked, simply glad to halt and try to catch his breath.
“There are a lot of bodies on the mountain,” Morris said. “Over a hundred. I don’t know who these two are.” He knelt and scraped some more snow away. “They’ve been here a couple of years.” Morris stood and stepped over them. “Let’s go.”
Turcotte looked down at the faces as he went over them. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would come here unless they absolutely had to. These two men had died simply for the glory of climbing Everest. Glory was something that had lost its luster for Turcotte early in his army career. Without realizing it, Turcotte was lost in his thoughts, going slower and slower, more rope paying out between him and Morris in the lead until the medic was thirty feet ahead and twenty feet above.
The crack of the claymore going off shocked Turcotte out of his reverie, as did Morris’s body slamming into him and knocking him backward into Mualama. The three men ended up in a pile on the ridgeline. Turcotte felt the body on top of him, not moving, even as Mualama was pushing to get free.
“Morris?” Turcotte slowly rolled the body to the side. The medic had been peppered by the steel balls the claymore sprayed out and Turcotte knew he was dead even before he checked for a pulse. “Son of a bitch,” Turcotte muttered as he pulled his glove off and slipped it under Morris’s mask. Nothing. No pulse, no breathing. Just blood, that was already freezing solid.
“What happened?” Mualama asked.
Turcotte had recognized the sound as soon as he heard it, but failed to react. “Booby trap,” Turcotte said. “Claymore mine.” He leaned his head down until his chin was just above Morris’s face. His heart was racing, whether from the constant attempt to pump blood to his oxygen-starved body or from the brush with death.
“We need to keep moving,” Mualama said.
With great effort, Turcotte lifted his head and looked at the African, whose face was hidden by the goggles and oxygen mask. Slowly Turcotte unclipped Morris from the rope. “Whoever’s ahead of us doesn’t want us following.” He knew if he’d been closer he’d be dead too. Morris’s taking the bulk of the blast and his being below were the only things that had saved him. Turcotte stood up, trying to focus his mind. Without Morris — could they make it? He looked up. The first rays of dawn were cutting across the mountain. He had a ground-positioning receiver. And a map with the location. He knew he could find the spot, but could he get to it? Morris had said — what had he said? The last part would be technical climbing. Across the top of the Kanshung Face.
Could he and Mualama do it? Turcotte took several deep breaths, but he still felt light-headed. There was no choice. He stepped over the medic’s body. “Come on,” he said to Mualama.
One of the Chinese transport planes had been shot down by a Turkish jet after crossing the border. The other three had pressed on, flying low, trying to stay under the Turkish radar. Unfortunately, the Chinese did not have anything approaching the mapping and navigational tools the American MC-130 had. As the three approached Mount Ararat and the commandos inside prepared to jump, one of the craft clipped the side of the mountain and exploded in a fireball. The other two made it into the Ahara Gorge and men began jumping out the doors in the rear of both craft, parachutes blossoming.
“More visitors,” Kakel said, watching the paratroopers descending. They were standing in the mouth of the cave, drawn out by the sound of the low-flying aircraft.
“Chinese,” Yakov noted, seeing the insignia on the tail of one of the planes as it roared up the gorge, jumpers tumbling from the doors. “Mainland forces.” He had no doubt why they were here. “Sent by Artad. This is his mothership and I suppose he wants it back.”
Kakel cursed. “Things have changed, haven’t they?”
“You can’t keep the mothership hidden away anymore,” Yakov said. “The world is at war and this is one of the pieces that is being fought over.” He had a set of binoculars out and was watching the descending troops.
“Ah!” Yakov exclaimed. He extended the glasses to Kakel. “Look,” he said, pointing.
Kakel peered up at the figure Yakov had indicated. “Who — or what — is that?”
“An Airlia. From Qian-Ling. It must be one of Artad’s people.” Even with just his eyes he spotted another dangling below a parachute, the long black, helmeted form easy to spot among the shorter Chinese commandos. “There are several of them.”
“Come.” Kakel slipped into the chamber, Yakov and the rest of the Delta commandos following. They went past the other Kurds who made their home there, toward the rear.
“We call this the back door,” Kakel said. “I don’t know why. It is the name that has been passed down. I have never seen a front door, if there is one.”
Yakov assumed that if the mothership lay ahead, there had to be another entrance, a large one capable of allowing the vessel to exit. Kakel went into a narrow tunnel and Yakov and the others followed. The floor of the tunnel sloped down and Yakov noted that the stone was cut smoothly, as he had seen at other Airlia sites. He had seen photos of the mothership at Area 51, so he knew what to expect, but still, his heart was beating rapidly as they descended into Ararat.
“Why have your people kept this secret?” he asked Kakel.
“The legend is that this is the path through which those saved on the ark came out into the world,” Kakel said over his shoulder. “We believe we would be the chosen ones to go back down this path and be saved if the ark ever were needed again. Why would we tell others about it?”