“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.
THE PATH OF A TRUTH-SEEKER BY SIR RICHARD FRANCIS BURTON
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.
THE SEARCH FOR LEGENDS
Prologue:
I, Richard Francis Burton, have lived a long and wondrous life that now winds its way into darkness. What is written on these pages was accumulated over the last thirty-six years when my life took a turn that I could never have imagined. I have tried to organize it as well as I can and I leave it to my beloved Isabel to finish my work after my death. Without her, I would never have been able to complete it; indeed my life would not have been worth living without her light spirit to keep me from falling into the darkness of all I have learned.
My involvement in the tale began when it reached my ears, in the city of Medina, in the year 1854 of the Christians after the birth of their Lord, that there was a man who knew much of the secrets of the world and the ancients. He was not spoken of favorably but with fear. That did not dissuade me. I had learned early in my life that one must often travel into darkness to get to the light.
I sought out this man, spoken of only in whispers as Al-Iblis, and was granted an audience. Some said he was a sorcerer, others a creature of the night whom mothers talked of to scare their children into going to bed on time. Others said he was a religious leader, but of what sect no one was certain.