Turcotte was pleased with that. “Communications?”
“Integrated secure SATCOM.”
Turcotte considered that. Not much help underwater or underground. “What about among team members?”
“FM capability.”
That would restrict them to line of sight. Better than nothing, Turcotte allowed.
“Let’s run you through your suit orientation,” Graves said.
Down below in the Cube’s main room, Larry Kincaid was staring at a computer screen feeding him live images from the Hubble of the surface of Mars. Quinn had managed to wheedle more live time off of the scope, but Kincaid had a feeling he was going to get shut down soon.
The mech-robots directed by the guardian on Mars had uncovered something, of that there was no doubt. Something that had been destroyed long ago and covered with rubble. There were still mechs at the site, but only a fraction of those had cleared away the rubble. The imagery wasn’t detailed enough to know exactly what the object was or what they were doing. All he could make out was a network of black metal. And it was moving.
Kincaid stared at the imagery for several moments. Where the hell were they going now? He typed in commands to be relayed to those controlling Hubble. As long as he could, he wanted to keep an eye on what was developing.
Kincaid picked through the many papers on his desk until he found the translation that Mualama had done of Burton’s manuscript so far. The account of Ngorongoro intrigued him — most particularly the part about the black network of metal that had been constructed on the side of the mountain and destroyed.
He pulled out a photo from the “face” at Cydonia and looked at what had been uncovered. It appeared to be the remnants of a black network of metal.
“It’s moving.” Elek’s observation didn’t register with Lexina for several seconds.
“What is moving?” she asked.
“The wall.” Elek pointed at Gergor’s clothes.
Lexina wasn’t sure what he was indicating until she realized that the gap between the clothes and the wall was larger than it had been before.
“It’s going back, very slowly, but it is going back,” Elek said.
Lexina felt a tremble of excitement. They’d simply been in too much of a rush. It was working after all. She looked up at the shimmering black surface. Soon what they desired would be revealed.
Another flight was taxiing down a runway on the opposite side of the world. An F-14 Tomcat reached the end of the Easter Island International Airport and slowly turned to face the long expanse of concrete. A man sat in the cockpit, but he was not a pilot. He had been chosen at random from among the thousands of humans who had survived the nanovirus experiments. He was there to throw the right switches when ordered to by the guardian. The alien computer was going to fly the plane.
With a jerk, the brakes were released and the F-14 accelerated down the runway. Using information culled directly from the Naval Flight Center master computer, the guardian followed correct procedure and the plane’s wheels lifted off the runway a half mile short of the end. It arced upward, afterburners kicking in. It headed directly for the inner curve of the black sphere when the guardian began a hard right bank over edge of the island.
Too hard. The wings lost their grip on the air and the plane slid sideways. The guardian tried to compensate and almost pulled it out, but the engine stalled and the F-14 dropped like a stone. The man in the cockpit watched with dead eyes as the ground rapidly approached, his hands at his sides, no attempt to pull the eject lever.
The F-14 hit the western slope of Rapa Karu crater in blossom of explosion. Within minutes, a cluster of mech-robots were gathered around the flames, waiting. As soon as the wreckage cooled they would go in, retrieve all the pieces, and bring them back to the nanorobots at the edge of the runway. The nanorobots would then rebuild the plane. The man was a loss, but humans were more easily replaced than machines for the guardian.
The data from the flight was analyzed, flight tolerances adjusted. On the runway, another F-14 moved into position.
Two hundred miles to the north, Captain Robinette, the commander of Task Force 79 by default, was looking at satellite imagery forward from fleet command at Pearl Harbor. There was no missing the huge ship and the broad wake that spread out from its blunt bow.
“ID?” He asked his operations officer, Command Lesky.
Lesky had an identification book open. “The Jahre Viking. 564,763 deadweight tons.”
Robinette whistled. “What’s the plot on this?”
“One hundred and eighty miles west of Easter Island, bearing directly down on the island at eighteen knots.” Lesky waited a moment. “Should we prepare a strike to interdict?”
“If that thing’s loaded with crude, do you know what kind of ecological disaster that would make?” Robinette said. “Besides, you know what it would take to sink that thing? We’d have to breach every hold or else the oil would keep it afloat.”
Robinette picked up a tighter shot of the tanker’s deck. There was a cluster of small objects. The next shot was more focused. Groups of people. Hatches were open. “It’s not carrying crude. It’s carrying people.” Robinette looked up. “Contact Pearl and ask them what they want me to do about this.”
“Yes, sir.” Lesky relayed the order. “What about the SEALs?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
Popeye McGraw was in the center of the lake that filled Rapa Karu’s crater, treading water. He had surfaced a half hour ago and could have been over the rim and down to the shore by now if he had tried. But what he saw when he broke the surface had stopped him. The rim was lined with people. Hundreds of them. All staring down at him with lifeless eyes. He knew what would happen if he tried to climb up. He didn’t have enough ammunition in his weapon to kill all of them. Plus, a SEAL never abandoned a buddy.
He knew what would happen next, and he waited.
When the hand from below grabbed his ankle and pulled him under, Popeye had his pistol ready. He had a brief glimpse through the water of Olivetti’s blank face as the man pulled himself toward him.
Popeye McGraw put the muzzle against his comrade’s forehead. “I’m sorry, buddy.” He hesitated pulling the trigger, looking into his friend’s eyes. And in that moment, the nanovirus flowed over his hand, freezing his nerves, infiltrating his system.
McGraw’s last free thought was that he had failed his buddy, his mission, and his country.
CHAPTER 12
“Our mission is to infiltrate operational area Aker — the Giza Plateau — and secure both Doctor Duncan and any alien artifacts we come across, with emphasis on finding the Grail.” Graves slapped the pointer on the acetate covering the small-scale map of the Middle East. “We will depart this location at 0500 Zulu time via bouncer for transport to an Israeli military airfield located here at Hazerim, ten miles west of Beersheba. There we will crossload onto an Air Force MC-130.”
Turcotte followed the pointer in Graves’s hand as the team leader continued the briefing. It was standing operating procedure (SOP) for a team to present a briefback — their operational plan — at the end of isolation to their commander in order to get final approval of the mission and plan. Turcotte was a believer in following SOP. It reduced the possibility of screwups, and routine also reinforced men’s confidence. Turcotte leaned forward and followed the tip of the point as Graves drew it west, bisecting the Sinai Peninsula.