She squinted. "Hydra?"
Pierce looked at her, his orange-tinged brown eyes blazing. "The Lernaian Serpent. The nine-headed swamp-dragon. Child of Typhon and Echidna."
She shook her head. It was all gobbledy-gook to her.
He took her by the shoulders and spoke quickly. "Herakles—"
"Who?"
Pierce sighed. No one knew the man's real name anymore. "Hercules. He was the bastard son of Zeus and Alcmene, a human woman. Because of this, he suffered the wrath of Hera, Zeus's jealous wife, who eventually made him go insane. He killed his wife and children. To overcome the madness he stayed at the court of King Eurystheus, seeking purification. He remained there for twelve years and during that time faced twelve trials, or labors. His second trial pitted him against a nine-headed creature called the Hydra He killed it by—"
He froze like an ice cube defying the intense heat of the Nazca plains.
"What is it?" she asked.
"He killed it by severing its central head — its immortal head — andcauterizing it before it could grow a new body." The possibilities spunt hrough Pierce's mind as he continued speaking in a monotone trancelike voice. "Most legends say that he buried the head under a large stone. How old is this site?"
"Carbon dating came back at four hundred to five hundred B.C., why?"
"Some scholars, including me, believe Hercules was a real person who lived around four hundred fifty B.C." His eyes widened. "The time fits. Boating in Greece became very important during that time period. Their victory at the battle of Salamis against the Persians was primarily because of their naval might. It might actually be possible that an expedition lead by Hercules reached the shores of Peru."
"The ancient Greeks had sailboats?" she asked.
"Yes," Pierce said, rubbing his eyebrow. "Cargo ships. They weighed up to one hundred fifty tons and made the Greek empire very rich from trade. But it may not have been a cargo ship. There was one ship at the time, renowned for its crew and vast explorations. You may have heard of it. The Argo."
She stifled a chuckle. "As in Jason and the Argonauts? I saw the movie, George. Ray Harryhausen may have been a genius with clay, but it's just a story."
Pierce looked at her, grinning. "You should do some research on scientists the U.N. sends to help you, Molly." McCabe's smile vanished. "What…?"
"A year ago I discovered an ancient Greek crew manifest for a ship named the Argo in a tomb dated to four hundred B.C. Looters had taken the major artifacts, but the manifest, along with other rotting documents, remained hidden in a crevice. Forty men were listed on the manifest. One of them was Hercules."
"Why didn't I read about this?" she asked. "Didn't you publish?"
"The manifest was stolen."
"By who?"
He shrugged casually, not wanting to retell the story about the two cloaked men who broke into his lab, knocked him unconscious, and stole the manifest, or explain who he thought they were. Nor did he want to tell her about the Antikythera excavation and the sunken ship they'd found, despite it's bearing on this conversation. His trust took time to earn. "Who knows? But I promise you, it was real. Hercules existed. He wasn't the son of Zeus, but he lived and breathed… and maybe, just maybe, visited Peru. The proof could be down there." Pierce pointed to the stone.
McCabe grabbed his shoulder. "George." He met her eyes, which were squinting as she smiled. "We need to get under that rock."
He nodded slowly, still stunned.
"And George," she said. "We're going to need security. If word of this gets out there will be no stopping the looters. They'll come in numbers a U.N. badge can't repel."
Pierce snapped out of his haze. "If you have a satellite phone, I know just the man."
THREE
Four invisible specters slid across the frozen sea. Concealed from head to toe in white, military-issue thermal armor, the Delta team moved toward their target — a terrorist training camp. The Aden-Abyan Islamic Army had opted for the deserted wasteland of Russia's Siberian north rather than the boiling deserts of their native Yemen. It was unknown how long the camp had existed or if Russia knew of its presence, but one thing was clear…
"It's time to blow this place sky fucking high," said Stan Tremblay, call sign "Rook," into his throat mike, which allowed the others to hear him despite the whipping arctic winds. "Talk about maximum shrinkage— it's so cold out here I might have to change my name to Susan."
The four prone figures shook slightly with laughter. From a distance they would be indiscernible from the surrounding snow and ice, of which there was an abundance surrounding the U-shaped island. Up close they'd look like nothing more than clumps of snow, disturbed by the wind. The only fault in their camouflage was the two one-inch slits in their antiglare snow goggles, but an enemy would have to be within five feet to see the aberration. By then it would be too late.
A dull roar from behind caused the group to become motionless once again. Shin Dae-jung, call sign "Knight," focused on the noise. A vehicle was approaching quickly across the ice, coming from behind and closing on their target. "Motion on our six," he said. "Heads down. Don't move."
The four Delta operators planted their faces in the snow, judging distance and speed from the whine of the engine and the vibrations in the ice beneath their bodies. It was going to pass by t hem — and close.
"Deep Blue, this is Knight. Do you see incoming target?"
After a faint hiss and click, the cool voice of a man they had never met, yet who watched out for them from above via satellite, came loud and clear through the team's specially modified AN/PRC-158 personal role radio. The radio, which could be used for both voice communication and data transmissions, contained GPS chips that allowed the team to be tracked around the world. The only catch was that there was a one-second delay. "Copy that, Knight. Zooming in on him now. Still one hundred yards out. Looks like two on a snowmobile. They're heading straight for you."
"Are they a problem?"
"Armed, but not looking for a fight…. Wait. Queen, you're about to become roadkill. Might want to roll to your right."
"Copy that," said a crisp, feminine voice. Zelda Baker, the lone female member of the team, call sign "Queen," waited motionless as the snowmobile and its two occupants barreled toward her.
"Two rolls to the right," Deep Blue said. "On my mark. Three…"
She tensed, waiting for the signal and hoping that Deep Blue took the one-second delay into account. The vibrations in the ice shook her jaw and the sound of the engine roared in her ears.
"Two… "
For a moment she wondered if she'd hear Deep Blue's signal over the racket, but then a voice came through, loud and clear, "Go!"
Queen rolled twice to the right, keeping her limbs tight and movement quick, she buried her face in the snow just as the snowmobile passed on her left, its track rolling over the edge of her sleeve. A moment later, the whine of the engine slowed and then idled.
"No one move," came the whispered voice of Deep Blue, as though the men on the snowmobile might hear him through the team's earpieces.
Twenty feet from the team, the two men turned around on their seat. They scrutinized the snow with squinted eyes. Their bodies were concealed behind thick layers of thermal garb and furs. Each had an AK-47 strapped to his back. As the engine idled one of the men stood and held his AK at the ready. He stepped toward the team, scanning the snow.
The voice of Deep Blue returned. "When I say your name, it means they're not looking at you and I want you to take the shot."