On the High Road to Oblivion

Chapter 12—Remember the Alamut!

“Dodge?” Newcombe got to his feet and took a cautious step forward. “It is you. What… how did you get here?”

Dodge was dumbfounded. Each question that popped into his head led to another that seemed even more important.

Hurricane saved him. “Well, Doc, how’s not as important as why, and why is, because we were chasin’ after the folks that absconded with you.”

“Absconded?” The scientist glanced at the woman who had preceded him into the room. “There’s been some kind of misunderstanding.”

“I’d say so,” Dodge finally managed. “I take it you aren’t being held prisoner by Walter Barron.”

“Prisoner? Good heavens, no.”

The woman glanced between Newcombe and the others, then abruptly stepped forward, extending her hand. “Findlay, where are your manners? I’m Fiona Dunn, but I insist you call me Fiona.”

Newcombe hastened to her side. “Fiona, this is Dodge Dalton. That’s Hurricane Hurley. And… Oh, Miss Holloway, you’re here, too?” He glanced at Anya and Rahman. “I have no idea who you are.”

“A pleasure, Miss Fiona.” Hurricane, ever the gentleman, stepped forward and took Fiona’s hand, and in so doing, Dodge realized, he distracted attention away from Anya. “Beggin’ your pardon of course, but I was raised better’n to address a lady with just her Christian name.”

“Fiona is an archaeologist,” Newcombe said.

“Among many other things. A pleasure to meet you all.”

“A woman archaeologist?” Nora sounded a little awed. “That’s extraordinary.”

Fiona cocked her head to one side, as if trying to decide on the most diplomatic response. “Well, it certainly is still a club for the old boys, but I can hold my own with the best of them. I found this, didn’t I? I suppose technically, you beat me to it by a few minutes.”

Hurley cleared his throat and then gestured to the opening overhead. “That’s a nifty trick. How’d you manage it?”

“A marvelous new invention,” Newcombe said. “A resonance wave generator. It uses principles suggested by Nikola Tesla—”

“The death ray.” Dodge had realized the answer even before the scientist had started talking, and realized that Hurley had as well.

“Well, it could be used that way, but I think that’s a poor choice of nomenclature.”

Dodge barely heard the scientist’s explanation for the device. All he could think was that he had failed — failed to prevent Barron from developing his death ray, failed to rescue his friend from the industrialist’s clutches, failed to protect the secrets of the Alamut library.

Once again, Hurricane’s voice cut through the confusion. “That’s mighty interesting, Doc, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather hear all about when I’m not in a hole in the ground.”

“Climb on up if you like,” Fiona declared, bending down to inspect one of the jars. “I’ve got work to do. I only hope the one we need isn’t buried under a ton of sand.”

“This is going to take a while,” Hurricane muttered.

“Well, it’s not as bad as all that.” She set the jar down and moved to a different row. “It is a library, after all; there will be a certain order to the collection.”

“Don’t tell me the Ismailis invented the Dewey Decimal System,” Nora said.

Fiona laughed. “Dewey invented that in 1876. I’m sure the librarians of Alamut had their own method. Once I figure it out, I’ll be able to narrow it down. Thanks to Findlay, were already days ahead of schedule.”

Hurricane drew close to Dodge and in a whisper, said: “What’s our play, here?”

Dodge shook his head uncertainly. “It’s obvious that the Doc isn’t being forced to help. We’ve only got Anya’s word that Barron is up to no good.”

Both men glanced over to the corner where the tall blonde woman stood, arms folded casually. She didn’t seem particularly upset at the turn of events, but then she had never been easy to read.

“We need more information. I say we help her find the map and then figure out the rest once we’re somewhere far away from here.”

“Unless you gentleman can read Classic Persian,” Fiona called from across the room, “then I’m afraid you won’t be much help.”

“She heard that?” Hurricane whispered, unnecessarily it seemed.

“I will help,” Rahman said. “What are you looking for?”

Fiona smiled at the expediter then rattled something off in Farsi. He replied in kind and then went to a different section of the room and began checking the copper tags.

“Well, that’s that,” Hurricane declared. “We’re just takin’ up space down here.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ll climb up and then pull the rest of you, if need be.” The big man reached up and wrapped his hands around the rope, then caught a loop of it between his boots. Before ascending, he leaned over and whispered: “It might be a good idea to hang onto that rifle.”

Dodge nodded, but recalling Hurricane’s earlier premonition of danger, found the admonition more than a little disconcerting.

As soon as the big man was off the rope, he signaled his readiness to begin pulling the rest of the group up. Dodge turned to Nora. “Ladies first.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” She scampered onto the sand heap, wrapped herself around the rope, and almost immediately was drawn into the air by Hurricane’s powerful arms. Anya went up next, approaching the rope as casually as if escaping from an underground pit was a common occurrence in her life.

Dodge kept a watchful eye on the rope, ready to take action in the event of a problem, but his thoughts were on Fiona’s ongoing search of the collection. After so much effort to reach the library ahead of Barron, he was now giving tacit support to his rival. He just hoped that, when Fiona finally found the jar with the map, it would not prove to be a Pandora’s Box.

He turned to Newcombe. “You’re not doing much good here, Doc. Want to head topside and catch up a bit?”

“Oh, I…” The scientist glanced at Fiona. Dodge noted the look of disappointment, and understood. Newcombe was smitten with the female archaeologist; was that clouding his judgment about this whole affair?

“Go on, Findlay,” Fiona called, not looking up from her search, and once more evincing an almost preternatural awareness of what was going on around her. “No sense in mucking about down here. You should probably get your machine ready for transport back to Majestic.”

Newcombe’s expression did not change appreciably, but he shuffled toward the rope. “Yes. Of course. I should take care of that.”

He was about halfway up when Dodge heard the first gunshot.

“Hang on!” Hurricane shouted. Newcombe shot up like a rocket as the big man intensified his efforts.

“What’s happened?” Dodge received no answer, other than the slack rope falling back down into the hole. With the captured rifle slung over one shoulder, he took the rope in hand and started shinnying up unaided, even as the sound of more gunfire reached his ears. The distinctive roar of Hurricane’s semi-automatics had joined the cacophony.

Despite the unknown threat above, Dodge could not help but notice the smooth surface of the stone that Newcombe’s — or rather Barron’s — device had cut through. It reminded him an enormous concrete pipe, perfectly round, and for some reason, that triggered a memory of something he had seen in the secret valley. He filed it away and continued scooting up the rope.

At the top, he peeked up just for a moment, and got a snapshot image of what was happening. He saw Hurricane, hunkered down behind a low stone wall, reloading his pistols. Just beside him, Newcombe and Nora were huddled together in the cover of the same barrier. Dodge saw several men in blue uniforms, likewise ducking for cover throughout the ruins of Alamut, and then he noticed two of the uniformed men simply sprawled out on the ground, unmoving.

Fiona appeared below, a ceramic jar in hand. “Found it! What’s going on up there?”

“We’re under attack. Stay put.”

Dodge heaved himself over the lip of the opening and scrambled to Hurricane’s side, unlimbering the rifle as he moved.

“Glad you made it,” Hurricane said, his voice filled with a note of confidence that was undermined by his next statement. “I’m down to my last two magazines.”

Dodge fired over the ruined wall. He didn’t have time to scan for a target; he mostly just wanted to remind the attackers that the defenders of Alamut were armed too. He saw the flash and smoke as someone returned fire, and ducked back down just as the bullet chipped the wall a few feet away.

“How many are there?”

“I saw about a dozen,” Hurricane replied. “Maybe nine, now. They rushed us en masse, but then high-tailed it when I started shooting back. But they’re bound to figure out that we ain’t got much more to throw back at ‘em. What I can’t figure is how they knew we’d find a way back to the surface.”

“Maybe they didn’t come for us.” Dodge gestured to the bodies of the uniformed men. “Those have to be Barron’s crew, so it doesn’t make sense that he’s the foreigner Dariush talked about.”

Hurricane pondered this for a moment, then rose up and took two quick shots. “Make that ‘eight’ now. If I can make every shot count, we might have a chance. So if not Barron, who?”

“Who else wants the death ray?” Dodge thought he already knew the answer to that.

Newcombe unexpectedly jumped into the conversation. “I keep telling you, it’s not a death ray.”

“Wait a sec. It’s here isn’t it? The… what did you call it? Some kind of wave machine? You used it to tunnel into the library, right?”

“Yes. That’s it.” The scientist pointed to a contraption mounted on a wheeled platform near the opening. “Why… oh, no you can’t be thinking of using it for that. It’s a tool, not a weapon.”

“Doc, a shovel’s a tool too,” Hurricane said. “But when you’ve got nothing else, you make do.”

“What kind of range does it have?”

Newcombe’s mouth worked, betraying his inner struggle. Before he could answer, Hurricane and Dodge both snapped off a shot apiece to buy them a few more seconds.

“The closer the better,” Newcombe said, finally. “The waves propagate better in a solid or liquid medium. Air just isn’t dense enough—”

“Close then,” Hurricane announced, sparing them the technical lecture. “We need to funnel them into a choke point.”

“At best that will just drive them off again,” Dodge pointed out. “We need a way off this rock. Who flew those autogyros down here?”

“Fiona flew one.” Newcombe glanced at the remaining crewmen, then at the bodies of the fallen, and his face fell. “The other pilot is… he’s—”

“Then we’ve got one pilot,” Dodge said. “Let’s get her up here. She can fly Nora and…” He paused and looked around. Anya was nowhere in sight.

“What about the rest of us?” Newcombe asked.

“We’ll hold them off as long we can,” Dodge said, with far more confidence than her felt.

“Toss me that rifle,” Hurricane called. “I’ll keep ‘em busy until you can get the lady up, and that thingamajig in position.”

Dodge did as instructed, and then busied himself pulling Fiona up. As soon as she was with them, he outlined the plan. The conversation was brief and punctuated with the sound of rifle fire, both from Hurley and the attackers.

“I’ll be a sitting duck until I can get aloft,” the archaeologist observed.

“We’ll do our best to cover you. I’m afraid we’re fresh out of good plans.”

Hurley popped up to fire again, but the rifle only clicked impotently. “Damn it.” The big man tossed the gun aside and drew his pistols again. “Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better do it now. I’ve got maybe four shots left.”

Fiona nodded tersely and started crawling toward the parked autogyros. Dodge and Newcombe hastily pulled Rahman up, then went to work putting the wave projector in position.

Newcombe loosened a couple bolts and swiveled the device so that its business end was pointed out horizontally. He then pointed to a switch. “That turns it on.” He swallowed. “I guess since I’m the expert on this device, I should be the one—”

Dodge covered his friends hand and moved it away. “I’ll take care of it. Just tell me one thing. What will this do to them?”

“You don’t want to know.”

There was the sound of another gunshot, but this one came from the autogyros — Fiona had reached the aircraft and started its engine. As the rotor began to turn, Dodge called Nora to him. “Next time Hurricane fires, you and the Doc get to that gyro.”

There was no argument. Hurley shot out the last of his ammunition as they reached their destination. A few seconds later, the autogyro started rolling toward the edge of the rock, and then almost gracefully leapt into the sky.

Dodge tore his eyes away from escaping aircraft and focused on the wave projector. Hurley crouched next to him. “They’re on the move. Creepin’ now, but I reckon they’ll grow some stones once they realize we’re out of ammo. Is this thing going to do the trick?”

“It had better.” Dodge flipped the switch. Newcombe had cautioned him that there wouldn’t be any fireworks, but the complete absence of any sort of activity from the machine made him wonder if it had malfunctioned somehow. Then, without any warning, a corner of the wall in front of the device seemed to melt away.

Suddenly a turbaned figure was standing there, pointing a rifle at him, and there was another man right behind him. The leading man shouted something, doubtless a demand for surrender, but even as the words were uttered, his face twisted into a snarl of pain. The rifle fell from his grasp as he clapped his hands to his head, and then he simply collapsed. A fraction of a second later, the man behind him went down as well.

Dodge felt a spasm of revulsion as his mind caught up to what he had just seen. The men hadn’t simply fallen down; it was as if their skeletons had evaporated, leaving only shapeless sacks of skin, muscle and viscera. Almost without realizing it, he switched the machine off.

“That spooked ‘em,” Hurricane called. “They’re falling back. Oh.”

Dodge saw the big man’s gaze fixed on the remains of the two attackers. Then, with the kind of caution one might use when trying to snatch a snake from its hole, Hurricane reached out and collected one of the fallen rifles. “Maybe we won’t have to use that thing again.”

Dodge nodded. Dead was dead, but somehow a bullet seemed a kinder fate than what Barron’s device dished out. Not that they had many bullets left. Dodge picked up the rifle Hurricane had earlier discarded and gripped it by the barrel, hefting it like a club.

A low wail rose up from across the open battlefield, a war cry as the remaining attackers gathered their courage for a mass attack. Dodge knew that their foes were probably smarting from the losses they had suffered, and rightfully terrified of the strange death ray, but once they made their move, they would quickly realize that they still held the advantage.

Hurricane aimed the rifle over the wall. It barked twice then was silent, and the big man sank back below cover. “Well, that’s that. They’ll be comin’ now.”

The war cry reached a fever pitch as the attackers charged.