Yakov leaned closer. “Also, you have a wounded man on board. It would be best if we got him to a hospital, yes?”
Turcotte could feel the gaze of every man — and the wizened, dark eyes of Che Lu — in the bouncer on him. He refused to look at them, instead staring down between his feet through the floor of the bouncer at the blue water of the Mediterranean flashing by below them. Human scientists had yet to figure out the Airlia technology that allowed someone inside to see out, yet kept the outside opaque to observers. Turcotte knew it was one of many things humans didn’t understand about the Airlia. He felt as if he and his fellow men and women were children who had stumbled upon a grownup’s cache of technology. They had discovered many things over the years; some could be used but their true purpose never understood. More unsettling to Turcotte was what they hadn’t found yet — or even more disturbing — the other uses for things they had but didn’t know about yet.
Ever since uncovering the secrets of Area 51—the alien mothership and atmospheric craft, called bouncers, hidden there — Turcotte felt like he and the others in his small group had constantly been reacting, never ahead of the various forces at play in the civil war among the Airlia and their semi-human minions.
On one side were the Airlia led by Aspasia, whom Turcotte had killed when he destroyed their fleet coming from Mars trying to claim the mothership. The death of their leader didn’t seem to have slowed their forces, though. Their human servants were Guides, men and women whose minds had been altered to obey by direct contact with a guardian computer. The Guides’ headquarters was a place called The Mission, its present location unknown.
The Guides and their followers were being drawn to Easter Island where a guardian computer that shielded the island was using nanotechnology — machines crafted at the atomic level — to convert both humans and machines to Aspasia’s cause.
On the other side were the Airlia led by Artad. Turcotte strongly suspected that Artad lay in suspended sleep underneath the great Chinese tomb of Qian-Ling, and he had just handed over the “key” to the lowest level of that ancient tomb to one of Artad’s followers, a human/Airlia clone named Elek.
This group was known as The Ones Who Wait. Turcotte had a feeling they weren’t going to be waiting much longer.
The leader of the The Ones Who Wait, Lexina, and some of her people were heading to China to unlock the lowest level and uncover whatever — or whoever — was hidden there.
And both sides, as they had clearly shown in the past several months, cared little how many humans were killed in the pursuit of their goals. So far Turcotte and his partners had uncovered evidence that both sides had greatly affected human history with such things as initiating the Black Death in the Middle Ages and manipulating forces of the SS during World War II. It kept Turcotte awake at night wondering how much more of the history he had been taught in school had been manipulated behind the scenes by the aliens and their creatures.
Every walk of life seemed to be infiltrated by one or the other of these alien groups, making it nearly impossible to trust anyone. Already there had been numerous instances of betrayal and even assassination. He trusted only Lisa Duncan, and now he was being told to abandon her.
His eyes finally rested on Master Sergeant Boltz, who had been wounded during the rescue operation in Moscow. The team medics were working on him, but it was obvious he had lost a lot of blood.
Turcotte’s thoughts were interrupted by Captain Billam, the A-Team leader. “We’ll go in, sir. Whatever you say.”
Turcotte felt a wave of gratitude for the captain’s support.
“We’re crossing into Egyptian airspace,” the bouncer pilot called out. “We’ve got multiple bogeys on radar closing on our position. Egyptian jets. We can outrun them easily enough, but if we land…”
Turcotte turned to Che Lu, eyebrows raised, deferring to age to help him make his decision.
“Giza is a large place,” the old Chinese woman said. “I have been there several times to study the mysteries. There are secrets there yet to be uncovered. Such a thing takes time.”
In Ranger School, Turcotte had been taught one thing above all else — any action, even the wrong one, was better than doing nothing.
“Lock and load,” Turcotte ordered.
As the special forces men checked their weapons, Yakov shook his head and removed his long, heavy coat, sure he wouldn’t need it on the Giza Plateau. He eased next to Turcotte and lowered his voice. “This is not a good idea, my friend.”
“If we wait, we may not have another chance,” Turcotte said. He turned away. “I want to do a low-level fly-by,” Turcotte told the pilot. “I’ll show you where to put us down.”
Everyone started as an Egyptian jet flashed by less than fifty feet away. “Hold on,” the pilot advised as he accelerated and dove at the same time.
The bouncer was now just above the desert floor, startling an occasional group of villagers as it raced overhead approaching Cairo.
The pilot gained a little altitude as they hit the city limits, but he was still so low that everyone cringed as he shot the craft between two high-rise buildings, then was above the Nile, scraping by just above the boats.
They could see the top of the Great Pyramid now, off to the right. Then the other two pyramids. Everyone stumbled as the bouncer abruptly slowed. Turcotte knelt, looking through the floor as they went over the Giza Plateau. He saw the ring of troops and armored vehicles surrounding the plateau, the troops a good distance from both the pyramids and Sphinx. Then he spotted a cluster of people between the legs of the Sphinx, a tall black figure among them.
“There.” Turcotte had one hand on the pilot’s shoulder, the other pointing at the Sphinx. “Put us on top of the head. Have your rappel slings ready.”
He jumped to his feet, grabbed the ladder that led to the top hatch, and climbed up.
“We have helicopters inbound,” the co-pilot announced.
Turcotte threw the hatch open and climbed out, clinging to the lip of the hatch as the bouncer arrived at the massive head of the Sphinx, edge touching the top. Turcotte slid down the smooth skin of the alien craft and landed on the ancient stone. He unslung his MP-5 and edged out to where he could see down.
He could see Mualama in the center of a group of armed men in unmarked desert camouflage. A figure in a black robe was next to the archaeologist, looking up. No sign of Duncan. Turcotte grabbed a sling rope and looped it around a snap link on his harness. Then he tucked the steel butt of the submachine gun into his shoulder as the rest of the A-Team deployed on the top of the Sphinx.
“Choppers are less than a minute out,” the co-pilot informed him through the FM-radio. “From the north.”
The men below had their weapons trained up, while Turcotte and his had theirs pointing down.
“An international incident,” Al-Iblis called out. “Americans invading Egypt. Excellent. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.”
“Where’s Duncan?” Turcotte demanded.
“I suggest you surrender your weapons.” Al-Iblis ignored his question.
“Helicopters thirty seconds out,” the co-pilot announced. “Egyptian gunships.”
Turcotte lowered his voice so only the members of his team could hear. “Flash-bangs on three, then board the bouncer.”
“You do not have much time,” Al-Iblis said. “I control the forces here.”
“One,” Turcotte said. He stood, letting the submachine gun dangle on its harness, both hands held up as if surrendering.
“Two.” He could hear the inbound helicopters and knew he was probably in the sights of a mini-gun.
“Three.”
Six black canisters were tossed, arcing down from the head toward the men below.