As the gunship lurched sideways, Masters saw a portion of one of the tail rotor blades spin away from the fuselage. The nose of the helicopter lifted as the pilot struggled to control an aircraft that suddenly wasn’t responding the way it should. He tried to gain height, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because it made the situation worse. As the nose pitched even higher, the gunship started to spin on its own axis.
And then there was nothing the pilot could do. The moment the tail rotor gearbox seized, he’d lost all directional control. The spin became even more violent and suddenly the Hind was plummeting to the ground, the main rotor blades smashing into rocks, debris flying in all directions as the fuselage impacted. There was a brief moment of silence, and then the fuel in the helicopter’s ruptured tanks ignited, turning the wreckage into a massive fireball.
Masters stepped back into the cave feeling drained. It was over. The crew inside the Hind could not have survived the impact — or the fire. There was nothing more for him to do.
* * *
Sitting in the rear seat of the Dhruv, Tembla watched the catastrophe unfold in front of him. He had to get out. The overwhelming tactical superiority afforded him by the presence of the Hind had gone, and he was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was sitting in a thin-skinned and extremely vulnerable helicopter, and less than a hundred yards away was a group of mercenary soldiers armed with assault rifles.
‘Abort! Abort!’ he yelled. ‘Get us out of here now!’
The pilot reacted immediately, hauling up on the collective and swinging the aircraft in a tight climbing turn away from the cave, accelerating as hard as he could towards the edge of the valley.
Killian was standing open-mouthed, staring at the scene of devastation in front of him. Then he heard an escalating engine note from behind him and glanced back to see the Dhruv taking off.
He watched helplessly as the man who’d walked out of the cave — and then apparently surrendered — stood up and drew a pistol. Holding his weapon ready, he started to work his way across the slope towards him. Killian looked around, but there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, a cliche come hideously to life. He raised his arms and waited.
But even as he watched the armed man approach, he smiled slightly. Whatever happened now, he was content. If the Lord God had not wanted him to be here, in this place and at this time, he would not be here. God clearly still had a task for him to complete. He closed his eyes. ‘Thy will be done, oh Lord,’ he prayed.
John Cross strode over to where Killian stood. ‘On the ground, face down, arms and legs wide apart,’ he ordered.
Killian obeyed, and Cross quickly and expertly searched him.
‘Who’s this?’ Nick Masters asked, walking across to them.
‘No idea, but he climbed out of that chopper that buggered off, so he must have something to do with whatever the hell this is all about. Maybe Donovan would like a word with him? Nice shooting, by the way.’
‘Thanks,’ Masters replied. He reached down, grabbed the recumbent figure by the collar and hauled him unceremoniously to his feet.
‘You speak English?’ Masters asked, and their captive nodded.
‘OK. We’re going down to the cave. You try to get away and I’ll shoot your legs from under you — you understand that?’
The man nodded again, and the short procession started making its way across the slope towards the dark shadow that delineated the cave entrance.
65
‘Masters!’ Donovan called out, as the mercenary soldier walked back into the cave. ‘Bronson’s got a gun. You’ve got to help me.’
Masters walked over to where Bronson was holding Donovan, the barrel of the semi-automatic pistol pressed into his neck.
‘Where did he get the gun?’ Donovan demanded.
‘I gave it to him,’ Masters said simply.
‘You did what? Why the hell did you do that?’
‘Because I’m a soldier, not a hired killer. That means I don’t shoot unarmed people whose only crime seems to be that they’re smarter than you are, Donovan.’
There was a commotion as Cross dragged in another man and slammed him against the wall.
‘Who are you?’ Cross demanded roughly, pushing his gun into the captive’s chest.
The man peered around in the gloom, his eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness, but didn’t reply.
‘Chris, it’s the priest,’ Angela said, standing up. Her voice carried clearly across the cave. ‘He was the one who tried to kill me.’
‘Did he now?’ Masters murmured. ‘Not exactly what I’d expect from a priest.’
‘My name is Father Michael Killian, and I am an ordained minister of the Church.’ The man’s voice was rough and hoarse. ‘Whatever I do, I am doing God’s work. I know you,’ he said, looking at Donovan, who was still being held by Bronson. ‘And if it’s the last thing I ever do, I’ll stop this appalling blasphemy you’ve been planning. That’s what I’ve been sent here to do.’
‘Sent by whom?’ Bronson asked.
‘By God Himself,’ Killian said, pride in his voice. ‘I am His messenger, and His agent.’
‘Gimme a break,’ Masters muttered.
‘This isn’t blasphemy, you lunatic,’ Donovan shouted. ‘This could be the greatest single advance in the history of medicine since the invention of anaesthetics or the discovery of antibiotics.’
‘And it’ll make you a multi-billionaire in the process. But I don’t suppose that’s influenced your decision in any way,’ Killian spat.
Masters looked from one man to the other, almost smiling at the vitriol. ‘Well, it doesn’t look to me like either of you is in any position to do much, one way or the other.’ He paused, then stepped across to the flat wall. ‘Let’s take a look at what we have here. This is the place you wanted to find, JJ?’
Donovan nodded, while Killian struggled furiously against Cross’s iron grip. ‘This is sacrilege, blasphemy.’
‘Can’t be both, can it?’ Masters remarked, studying the wall carefully. ‘Not both at the same time, I mean? And it’s interesting that you and your guys were quite happy to follow us here in that goddamned Hind and try to kill us all, but when it comes to opening up a tomb you come over all Old Testament. Sounds to me like you’re sending out a mixed message there.’
‘Your lives are irrelevant,’ Killian shouted. ‘What you’re trying to do here could damn your immortal soul for all eternity.’
‘That’s the kind of thing I mean,’ Masters said mildly. ‘Definitely Old Testament.’ He turned to Cross. ‘If that idiot says anything else, put a round through his stomach then throw him outside. He’s starting to give me a headache.’
‘Pleasure,’ Cross murmured. He swept Killian’s legs from under him and aimed his pistol downwards. ‘Just give me a reason,’ he said.
‘We think it slides,’ Angela said. She gave Killian a withering glare, then walked across to stand beside Masters. ‘Chris found grooves cut in the floor and ceiling.’ She pointed towards the edge of the stone wall.
‘Got it,’ Masters said. ‘So we need to lever on the left-hand side, I guess, to start it moving.’
‘There’s a crowbar on the floor by the wall,’ Bronson said, not loosening his grip on Donovan’s collar. ‘And if you look in my rucksack, Angela, you’ll find a couple of big screwdrivers as well.’
‘I like a man who comes prepared,’ Masters said, as Angela handed him the bag.
‘We were expecting some kind of tomb,’ she said, ‘not a wall made of solid stone. I don’t know if a crowbar’s going to be enough to shift that.’
‘They must have mounted it on rollers,’ Bronson said. ‘Nothing else makes sense. Once it’s started moving, it should be fairly easy to shift.’
‘Yeah, the trick is gonna be gettin’ it started.’ Masters gestured to Cross. ‘Here, John. You’re stronger than I am. I’ll watch the priest. You wanna try gettin’ this sucker open?’