The Biofab War (5 page)

“From the day before my banishment. Care for a tour?”

“Try to stop me,” said John. “Someone should stand guard,” he added, carefully avoiding Zahava’s return glare. “Hate to get trapped in there.” Relenting only after heavy pleading, she turned to go, pouting. “Better get the Uzi out of my car trunk,” he added, tossing her the keys.

“Expecting another attack?” asked Greg.

“At least,” said John.

Greg led the way with his big hand torch, followed by Bob and John. He counted 150 steps down before the rock-hewn passage turned sharply right, widening into a vaulted chamber, its center dominated by a rough stone altar. The walls tiered upward into equally rude stone benches. In all, John guessed the small chamber might have held fifty people.

“Do you know what this is?” asked Greg, his tone implying they didn’t.

“It would appear to be an altar chamber sacred to Bel of the Celtiberians—the Celtic peoples,” Bob said evenly. He brought out his own light from a baggy tweed pocket and played it over the oval altar stone. “Seeing the earlier sample from here, I was expecting something like this. This chamber could probably be dated around 100 AD, if certain huge conflicts didn’t exist.”

“Such as?” asked John, knowing of at least one: sophisticated technology guarding the entrance to a rude temple contemporary with Augustus Caesar.

“This,” said Bob, holding up the stone fragment John had last seen disappearing into Sutherland’s briefcase. “I had to sign my life away to get this from Bill. As we know, it’s Egyptian of the Middle Kingdom. It fits perfectly, I’ll bet, into that freshly carved niche over the outside entrance way. Your work?” he asked Greg.

“Yes.” The geologist nodded. “I gave it to Joe Antonucchi the night before I was shipped out. I see he managed to get it off before he was killed—a killing, by the way, I only heard about from Cindy a week after it happened.”

“You’re clean,” said John. “The FBI placed you in Shreveport that day. So, you think this is what got Antonucchi killed, Greg?”

“Yes. Once this find was announced, no port facility, no more Royal contract. This would have become the new Area 51. And put a crimp in Director Freddy’s lifestyle.”

“Yes and no,” said Bob. “If I were Langston, I’d give my right hand to have found this. I’d use it to catapult my scientific career into the heavens. My colleagues would honor me—once they got over the shock and stopped belittling me. Any university in the world would have me on my own terms. Rumors of government intrigue and involvement would only heighten my reputation. And my lecture fees…!” He leaned against the altar, silhouetted by Greg’s powerful light. “You’d do very well out of this, Greg.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” John added. “Royal wouldn’t cancel Leurre’s contract. They’d just move the docking facility to New Bedford and bask in the sheen of Langston’s reflected glory. The positive PR would help overcome the flak they’re taking for wanting to drill here.”

“Any thoughts on the doorway?” asked McShane.

“A million,” Farnesworth grinned. “All culled from Saturday sci-fi reruns. I do have an observation, though. Even under a magnifying glass, there’s no visible separation between rock and door. They seem melded together—maybe on a sub-molecular level.”

Bob cleared his throat. “Well that steals some of my thunder.”

“We interrupted you,” said John. “You were saying about the fragment?”

“I was saying that fragment’s in a language whose peoples were dust five thousand years before the Celts of Europe. There are lucid arguments for the existence of ancient trading routes to the New World from the Classical—Egypt, Tarshish, Carthage. Dead Mediterranean languages have been found carved into rocks throughout North America, especially New England. But this is the first evidence that allegedly unrelated, loose trading confederations not only were established on these shores, but also overlapped, interacting with each other down through time. To believe that two people so far separated in time and origin as the Celts and the Egyptians occupied the same concealed site—
concealed
, mind you—fifty centuries apart through coincidence . . . well, I can’t accept it. The little green light and its wondrous door only fuel my skepticism.”

Automatic weapons fire echoed faintly through the temple.

“Zahava!” cried John, leading the rush for the stairs.

Z
ahava had been settled behind some boulders no more than ten minutes when movement in the undergrowth below snapped her to alert.

Led by Fred Langston, a score of M-16 toting Institute security guards were winding their way up the trail toward her. When they were out of the brush, about forty yards away, she shouted, “Halt!” and fired a warning burst.

All but Langston dived for cover. “Hold your fire!” he shouted. “Harrison, is that you?”

“His associate,” Zahava called back.

“I’m unarmed and coming up alone.” Which he did, topping the rough trail quickly, not breaking a sweat.

“Where’s Harrison?” he demanded, ignoring the Uzi’s muzzle leveled at his belly.

“Here.” John appeared from behind the boulder, Greg and Bob behind him.

“Hi, Freddy.”

“Farnesworth?” Langston turned angrily to John. “Harrison, this area’s strictly off limits. We’re doing some very delicate work up here. No trespassers.”

“I thought I had carte blanche.”

“As relates to
Argonaut
and the murder. This isn’t related. You have to leave.”

“And if we don’t?”

“I’ll be forced to expel you.” He emphasized “expel.”

“How did you find us, Dr. Langston?” Bob asked, surveying the guards deploying along the hillside. “You and your Delta Force just happen to be grouse hunting?”

“We have an extensive security system.”

“Expensive, certainly,” said John. “Once I make a few phone calls, the FBI will be visiting you in force. You can tell them why you need automatic weapons.”

“You’ll need to leave to make that call—this hill’s a dead zone—no cellphone service. You have three minutes to be on your way, Harrison.” Turning, he started back down the trail.

“Hey, Freddy, I found it,” Greg said, leaning insouciantly against a boulder. Langston froze for an instant, then resumed walking, seeming not to have heard.

“Take cover,” John said. “It’s their move.” He joined Zahava behind the rocks, pistol drawn.

The guards had used the time to find better positions. Reaching them, the Director barked an order, diving for cover.

A hail of M-16 slugs ricocheted off the rocks. The barrage was so intense that John and Zahava couldn’t return the fire. It was only a matter of moments until a bullet would find one of the four.

Gauging a retreat over the hilltop, John saw two black-uniformed figures low-crawling along the crest. Sighting carefully, he snapped off five quick shots. One man rolled backward out of sight, his short, blunt weapon clattering down the hill. The other beat a hasty retreat.

“Cover me!” Greg shouted above the din. As John and Zahava fired, drawing the return fire, the geologist scampered out onto the trail and back again, clutching his prize: the fallen man’s weapon. “M79 grenade launcher,” he panted, breaking open the breach. “My dad had one of these in ‘Nam.”

“Wish my dad had given me a grenade launcher,” said John. “Or an RPG. We can’t stay here and we can’t retreat. Can you use that?”

“He brought some ammo home, too,” smiled Greg, slamming the weapon shut.

“Yeah, well it’s only got one round. Bob, when you hear the explosion you and Greg run for the passageway. Zahava and I’ll cover you.”

McShane nodded curtly.

“Now!”

Sighting carefully, Greg fired. The grenade exploded between two of Langston’s men, hurling them into the scrub. John and Zahava emptied their magazines into the rest. A light scattering of fire responded. “Let’s go!” said John. They ran after the others.

“Where’s Bob?” John asked Greg, waiting for them inside the open entrance.

“In the altar chamber. Hurry, I’m closing the door.” He shined his light at a point inside the doorway parallel to the sensing device on the outside. The rock swung silently shut. They found Bob busily examining the altar.

“Think they’ll follow?” asked Zahava.

“No. Langston obviously knows what’s here and how to get in. And he knows we’d slaughter his men in that narrow passageway. They’ll post guards and wait for us to die of thirst.”

“Now what?” Greg asked as he and John sat on a bench, sharing a canteen. “You do this stuff for a living.”

John shrugged. “Dunno. Is there another way out?”

“Not that I found.”

“We’re doing brilliantly,” said Bob, looking up from the pedestal. “In one day we’ve uncovered the villain, made archaeological history, and stood off a band of desperados. Now all we have to do is get out alive.”

“Please continue your briefing, Bob,” John said. “We have time.”

“My pleasure.” He sat atop the altar, legs crossed, stick by his side. “Let me recap for Zahava what happened while she was topside.” Which he did, continuing in his best seminar manner, “So finding this site creates more mysteries than it solves. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of pre-Columbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar. The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. Caesar himself says so in the third book of his
De Bello Gallico
,
The Gallic Commentaries.

“Trade between this continent and Europe, we may speculate, effectively ended with the rise of Roman might. The colonists were then absorbed by the ‘natives,’ themselves the children of previous colonies, their heritage long forgotten. From these peoples came the various Native American tribes.

“That, at least, is how archaeology, once it confronts this find, will explain it. What it won’t and can’t explain is the concealment of this site by a sophisticated technology at least equal to ours yet dating from the site’s construction.

“Equally bizarre is the seemingly successive sharing of this site by the diverse peoples who touched these shores. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries. Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep it secret?”

“Aren’t you leaping to conclusions, Professor?” asked Greg.

“What’s your alternative? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?”

Greg nodded.

Bob shook his head. “By whom—to what end? Every effort’s been made to conceal this place, not to foist it on the academic community. Also—it feels old.”

They all felt it, an aura of antiquity pervading the altar, the stone tiers, the tunnel and stairs worn smooth by feet eons dust.

“‘The dark and backward abysm of time,’” John quoted softly.

The heavy thud of explosions rocked their sanctuary, sending them diving to the hard floor amidst a shower of falling rock.

“They’re blowing their way in!” Greg shouted as the bombardment continued.

“No.” John picked himself up as quiet returned. “They’ve sealed us in.”

A quick trip up to the entrance proved him right. There was no winking green light. The door wouldn’t budge under their combined efforts.

“Letting thirst kill us,” said Zahava.

They somberly rejoined Bob. Undeterred by the prospect of a lingering death, he was still exploring the altar by the fading beam of his light.

“There’s got to be another way out,” said John, shining his own light along the chamber walls.

“No, there doesn’t,” said Bob. “But in fact, there is.
Eureka!”
he cried, finding his feet as the massive capstone swung soundlessly aside. A gleaming alloy ladder hung to the side of the altar well, the shaft plunging into the dark beyond the range of their lights. “This is just so cool!” enthused Bob, lowering himself gingerly onto the top rung. “What are you waiting for?” he grumbled as they hesitated. “We’ll be as dead as this place is if we don’t find another exit.”

One after another, they followed him down into the blackness.