The recent revelation that aliens — the Airlia — had visited Earth in the distant past, and never left, had thrown the accepted version of human history into disarray, including the reason why the pyramids and Sphinx were built. Peter Nabinger, one of the original members of the team that had penetrated the secret of Area 51, had come up with his own explanation of the pyramids’ purpose before his death in China: when sheathed in the original smooth limestone their radar signature had been immense, able to be picked up far out into space. Thus, he reasoned, they were a beacon, designed to bring a spaceship close. That was stage one, the attention-getter. Then Nabinger had found stage two, the accompanying message written on the face of the Earth in the form of the Great Wall of China itself, spelling out the Airlia High Rune word for HELP.
Unfortunately, Nabinger had not lived long enough to unravel the riddle of the Sphinx. With the aid of another archaeologist, Professor Joseph Mualama from the University of Tanzania, Lisa Duncan had discovered that the Sphinx was a surface marker for what lay buried deep beneath, where she had just opened the lid of the Ark of the Covenant.
Almost a half-mile directly below the Great Sphinx was a cavern, just short of a half-mile in diameter with curved walls. Light came from a bright orb on the ceiling, a mini-sun that had burned for millennia ever since the object that rested in the center of the floor was first hidden.
Here lay a replica of the Great Sphinx. Its skin, however, was not made of stone, but a flawless black metal that absorbed the light. The head was larger, the nose not shot off like its cousin on the surface. The eyes of the Black Sphinx were blood red with elongated red irises that glowed from some inner power.
The Sphinx’s paws extended almost sixty feet in front of the head, which rose seventy feet above the floor of the cavern. The body stretched one hundred and eighty feet back, making the entire object almost three hundred feet long. Between the paws, just under the chin, stood a statue over nine feet tall, shaped like a man, but with subtle differences — the body was too short proportionally, the limbs too long. The largest difference was the head, with polished white skin, ears with long lobes that ended just above the shoulders, and two gleaming red eyes set in the long narrow face. The stone that covered the top of the head — imitating hair — was also red.
In front of the statue was a group of soldiers armed with the latest weapons awaiting further orders. In the corridor that led from below the statue to the chamber inside of the Black Sphinx stood their leader, known to Middle Eastern intelligence agencies as the terrorist Al-Iblis. What he sought, Lisa Duncan had in her hands.
Two bodies lay on the floor near him. Both had borne the name Kaji, father and son. Both had been Watchers, entrusted with the secret the Black Sphinx held. Facing Al-Iblis stood Professor Joseph Mualama, the archaeologist who had picked up the torch passed on by Nabinger, trying to make sense of the ancient mysteries and legends. It was from his searching on the path of the famous explorer Sir Richard Francis Burton, that he had been able to lead Duncan to the Great Sphinx. From there the elder Kaji had led them to the Black Sphinx before being killed along with his son by Al-Iblis, ending the line of their family that had watched the Giza Plateau for millennia.
Al-Iblis turned as one of his men ran up to him rattling off something in Arabic about incoming helicopters. Barking commands, Al-Iblis led his soldiers toward the tunnel leading to the surface, dragging Mualama along with them. Lisa Duncan’s face reflected the glow coming from inside the Ark. Resting on a cradle of black metal lay a golden hourglass figure, eighteen inches high by eight wide at each end. The middle was an inch wide. It was a thing told of in tales and legend:
The Grail.
Immediately Duncan saw where the legend that the Grail was a cup came from, but beyond its form, both ends appeared to be solid. She reached in, surprised at how steady her hands were, and picked it up. The Grail was heavy, as if solid.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor next to the Ark, and placed the Grail in front of her. She simply stared at it for several minutes. She could see why so many legends had grown up around the object. The surface was translucent, emitting a slight golden glow. It seemed to be made of the same material as the guardian computer. There was a strong sense of power emanating from it.
She held her hand out, six inches over the flat top. Her skin tingled. She lowered her hand until it touched the metal and held it there for several seconds. She jerked it back as if scalded as the surface shimmered brightly for a second. The top irised, revealing a six-inch-wide opening. Cautiously, Duncan leaned forward and peered down into it.
Four inches into the Grail was a small, perfectly round depression, about an inch and a half in diameter. Duncan frowned, then, very slowly, she dipped the forefinger of her right hand into the opening. The tingling sensation grew stronger as she touched the depression, but nothing else happened.
She pulled her finger out of the Grail. After ten seconds, the opening closed. Duncan thought for a while, then turned the Grail over. She touched the flat side that was now up and wasn’t surprised when it also irised open, revealing another small depression, identical to the first one.
Something went in those depressions. But what? Without conscious thought, her hands strayed to the two empty pockets on the essen she wore. Where the urim and thummin stones were supposed to be. The pockets were only about two inches wide and three inches deep, just big enough for stones an inch and a half in diameter.
Lost in the Grail, what she didn’t see right away were the fine black wires clipped into the lid of the Ark that ended in what appeared to be tiny carved rose petals.
Mike Turcotte slapped the back of the magazine of 9mm bullets against his kneecap, relishing the jolt of pain and the sound of the rounds settling tight against the metal casing. He did it once more, even harder. He slid the magazine into the well of the MP-5 submachine gun and let the bolt slide forward, chambering a round. He felt emotionally detached from the members of the Special Forces A-Team gathered around him, from the Russian agent Yakov, to the Chinese archaeologist Che Lu, to every person inside the alien-made bouncer speeding through the air toward Egypt.
Weapon ready, he let it hang from his shoulder on the sling. Then he paused, taking a deep breath. Turcotte stretched his right hand out in front, opening the palm, stretching the scar tissue.
“Pain is too emotional,” Yakov said. Turcotte was startled. “What?”
Yakov shook his head and didn’t repeat the statement, and another voice filled the void.
“Sir, the Egyptians are refusing permission to enter their airspace.” Captain Billam had been monitoring the radio since they departed Mongolia.
“Screw them,” Turcotte said as he clenched his hand into a fist. “Any word from Area 51 on Duncan’s exact location?”
“Negative,” Billam replied. “Last word was the Giza Plateau. Nothing since. But we do have an intelligence report that the entire plateau has been sealed off by the Egyptian military.”
Yakov placed a large hand on Turcotte’s shoulder. “My friend, I do not think this is a time we should — how do you say? — ‘Shoot first and ask questions later.’ We do not know exactly where your Doctor Duncan is. We may be able to get this craft to Giza, but what then? Once we go outside, we will be fair game.”
Yakov was a giant of a man, almost seven feet tall with a thick bushy beard hiding his lower face. He had been a member of Russia’s Area 51 team called Section IV, and now that the aliens had destroyed his home base, he had joined Turcotte and Duncan’s small group, searching for the truth about the aliens and their followers, trying to foil their plans.