The Devil Colony

Chapter 40

June 1, 5:50 A.M.

Yellowstone National Park

Major Ashley Ryan didn't like babysitting.

"Just stay out of our way," Ryan warned the Ute kid. He pointed to a boulder at the edge of a stand of pines. "Sit there. And make sure that dog doesn't lift his leg on my pack."

Jordan scowled, but obeyed.

The National Guard and the Indians in Utah did not get along-or, at least, not as far as this National Guardsman was concerned. Ryan still remembered the ruckus that had gone down before the explosion in the mountains. If the Indians just knew their place like everyone else did, they'd all get along fine.

Ryan stared across the field to where Bern and his mercenaries had staked a claim thirty yards from the hole. The blond giant had three men; so did Ryan. Even odds if you didn't count the kid and dog.

And Ryan didn't.

Bern stared his way, his hands on his hips, eyeballing the competition just as studiously. Then the big Aryan glanced toward the sky. A moment later, Ryan heard it, too.

Another chopper.

The constant bell beat of their rotors had already set his head to pounding, his eyeteeth to aching. A trio of choppers was circling above, ready with blast boxes. The pilots had already placed four insulated crates on the ground, preparing for fast handoffs and quick bunny hops out of the park.

Ryan checked his watch. Twenty minutes. That did not leave a lot of margin for error. As he listened, the sound of a second helicopter joined the first. He stared up as the first appeared, sweeping low over the ridge and diving down.

What the hell? Has something happened?

Then, from the back of the transport helo, heavy lines suddenly came coiling down, followed just as quickly by men. They wore the same black scare-gear as Bern's mercenaries.

Fuck.

Ryan swung and ducked, moving instinctively. He heard the crack of the pistol at the same time as a round buzzed over his head. Down on one arm, like a linebacker, he stared back at Bern. The blond man held his pistol pointed.

The gun blasted again.

One of Ryan's men flew off his feet and skidded on his back in the dirt.

He had a hole where his eye used to be.

Ryan bolted for the boulders where he'd sent the boy. His instinct was to protect the civilian. But he also had two men under his watch.

"Get to cover! Now!"

They had to find a castle to defend. The nest of boulders would do until he could figure out something better. Rounds blasted into the dirt around him. Ahead, Jordan had already ducked into hiding behind the rocks.

His two men-Marshall and Boydson-flanked Ryan, running low.

All three hit the boulders and dove down.

Ryan freed his rifle and found a crevice between two rocks to use as a roost. He stared as eight men vacated the first chopper. Moments later, the second dipped down like a deadly hummingbird and unloaded the same number.

That made it twenty to three.

Those were not good odds.

5:51 A.M.

Rafael checked his watch.

Bern should be securing the surface by now.

He tried to listen for the spatter of gunfire, but they were too far underground to hear. Plus, the large gold fountain they'd passed on the way to the temple was burbling and splashing over the bowl's lip, accompanied by gaseous popping sounds.

Rafe hurried past, holding his breath, followed by Ashanda and the girl. His two bodyguards kept several steps ahead, creating a shield between him and the others.

Sigma's geologist glanced back to the bubbling gold bath. "They've tapped into the geothermal currents running through here. This whole place must be resting at the edge of that steam engine driving the basin's natural hydraulics."

But eventually even the geologist was drawn forward, staring at the giant temple. It seemed to grow taller the closer they got, supported by gold pillars adorned with sculpted sheaves of wheat and stalks of corn, all wrapped with flowering vines.

Could this truly be a model of Solomon's Temple? Rafe wondered.

A part of him thrilled at that thought, but a much larger part sensed the danger pressing down upon them all.

The professor spoke as they climbed the stairs up to the front porch of the ancient structure. "Solomon's Temple-often called the First Temple of Jerusalem-was the first religious structure to be built atop Mount Zion. Rabbinic scholars say it lasted for four centuries until its destruction in the sixth century BCE. It stood during the time that the Assyrians scattered the ten tribes of Israel to the winds."

The old man waved an arm toward the structure before them. "This was their place of worship. But it was also a citadel of knowledge and science. King Solomon was said in many stories to wield magical, otherworldly powers. But what is one man's magic is another man's science."

Kanosh led them forward in space, while in his mind he went back in time. "Perhaps these Tawtsee'untsaw Pootseev were once magi in service to Solomon, bringing together Jewish mystical practices and Egyptian science. Until they were scattered by the invading Assyrians. After they arrived in the New World, they did their best to preserve the memory of that great temple to religion and science, borrowing the techniques of the ancient Pueblo people to construct it."

Reaching the porch, Professor Kanosh hurried forward toward the open doors.

"The first chamber should be the Hekhal or Holy Place," Hank said.

They all pushed across a vestibule into the first chamber. It was empty, its walls lined by pine logs, fashioned elaborately with animal totems: bear, elk, wolf, sheep, eagle.

"In Solomon's Temple, this chamber was decorated with carvings of cherubim, flowers, and palm trees. But these ancient builders clearly absorbed the physical characteristics of their new home into their design."

"But it's empty," Painter said, and checked his watch.

"I know." Kanosh pointed to another set of stairs that led up to a doorway partitioned by gold chains. "If we're looking for the temple's most sacred objects, they'll be there. A room called Kodesh Hakodashim, the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum of Solomon's Temple. It is in here that Solomon kept the Ark of the Covenant."

Painter led the way, buffeted forward by the pressure of time. The others chased him up the steps. One of Rafe's guards offered Rafe an arm to help him follow. He did not refuse it.

He heard gasps ahead and hobbled faster, striking the stone floor hard with his cane, angry at his disability. Ashanda stepped forward with her young charge and held the chain curtain open for him. He ducked through on his own, releasing the guard's arm.

He stumbled into a room that left him trembling in awe. Gold covered every surface, floor to ceiling. Massive plates-three stories high-made up the walls, like gargantuan versions of those smaller gold tablets. And like those miniatures, writing covered the walls here in their entirety, millions of lines, flowing all around.

Hank had fallen to his knees between two fifteen-foot-tall sculptures of bald eagles, upright, side by side, wings outstretched to touch the walls on either side and tip to tip in the middle. "In Solomon's Temple, these were giant cherubim, winged angels."

Even Painter had halted his headlong rush forward to gawk. "They look like the eagles on the Great Seal. Did someone show Jefferson a drawing of this space?"

Hank just shook his head, too moved to speak anymore.

Rafe felt a similar stirring-how could he not?-but he knew his duty. "Record all of this," he ordered one of his men, sweeping his cane to encompass the walls. "This must not be lost."

"But where are the caches of nanotech?" Painter asked.

"That is a puzzle I will leave to you, Monsieur Crowe."

That cache was going to blow anyway, so Rafe saw no need to chase down that trail. The true treasure was here: the accumulated knowledge of the ancients. He ran a palm along the wall, casting his eyes from roof to ceiling, trying to preserve it all with his unique eidetic memory, to bank it away into his organic hard drive. He moved step by step around the room, lost in the rivers of ancient script. Here must be their history, their ancient sciences, their lost art, all recorded in gold.

He must possess it.

It could be his family's entry to the True Bloodline.

A shout rose to the side, but he did not turn.

It was Sigma's geologist. "Director, there's a door back here-and a body."

5:55 A.M.

Deafened by the continuous firefight, Major Ashley Ryan did not hear the small team flanking his nest of boulders. Pinned down, he and his two men did their best to hold their castle-picking off targets when they could, driving back raids and attempts to swarm them.

Bern's commandos had control of the valley floor, holding the entrance to the tunnel below. Ryan could not even reach his men's packs and extra ammo.

Then a sharp barking drew his attention back and to the left.

The alarm saved his life-all of their lives.

Ryan flicked a gaze in that direction. Spotted a shadowy trio of commandos slip low out of the dark tree line and race low toward his team's flank.

The dog leaped atop the boulder and bayed a challenge.

Ryan rolled, freeing his rifle from the boulder roost. He used the distraction caused by the dog to pop the lead assassin in the face with two rounds. The man went down. The other two commandos fired. The dog yelped, one foreleg shattering under him. The dog toppled off the boulder and hit the grass.

Motherf-

Ryan raised himself higher, exposing himself, and squeezed the trigger hard, strafing in automatic mode. By now, his two men had entered the fray, swinging around and firing. A brief barrage and the two commandos crumpled outside the castle of boulders. Their walls had not been breached, but it had been close. And they all had a problem.

"I'm out," Boydson said, discharging a smoking magazine from his rifle.

Marshall checked his weapon and shook his head. "One more volley then I'm spent."

Ryan knew he wasn't in any better shape.

Bern bellowed in German across the field, his voice rife with bloodlust. He must know their quarry had been beaten down, that they were running low on options and ammo. Ryan shifted forward again and peered out.

The enemy force-still fifteen strong-was readying for a final charge. Bern was going to lead it, standing exposed fifty yards away, fearless in his body armor and confident in his firepower.

A big arm pointed toward Ryan's position.

Ryan settled his cheek to his rifle.

Here we go.

9:56 P.M.

Tokyo, Japan

Riku Tanaka sat in front of the computer deep within the labyrinthine structure of the euphemistically named Public Security Intelligence Agency, Japan's premiere espionage organization. Riku could not even say what floor he was on- likely underground, from the annoying hum of the air-conditioning -or even what building.

He did not care.

His hand rested in the palm of Janice Cooper.

Since their rescue out of the frigid depths of the Super-Kamiokande detector's tank, he'd seldom been out of physical contact with her. Her presence helped him maintain his balance in the world, like an anchor securing a ship in questionable seas, while his psyche rebuilt itself.

They waited for the latest data from the various subatomic particle labs to collate through his refined software program. With the point of critical mass approaching, unknown variables were falling away, allowing a more exact estimate of the time when the explosion would occur.

Finally, the calculations were complete.

The answer glowed on the screen.

Riku's hand flexed, squeezing hard.

Janice returned his hold, needing an anchor now as much as he did.

"We're doomed."

5:56 A.M.

Yellowstone National Park

Painter crouched beside the body on the ground.

The man lay on his back atop a bison hide, hands folded to his chest.

The Native American garb on the man's mummified remains was brighter than the bodies outside. A pearlescent ring of white eagle feathers circled his bare, thin neck. A long braid of gray hair still had bits of dried flowers, where someone had placed them with great and loving care. A richly beaded cape-acting as a burial shawl-wrapped his bony shoulders.

This man had not committed suicide. Someone had interred him here in the Holy of Holies, a great honor.

Painter could guess why.

Two objects were placed under his shrunken, pale hands.

Under one, a white wooden cane, topped with a silver knob imprinted with a French fleur-de-lis symbol.

Under the other, a birch-paper journal bound in hide.

It was the body of Archard Fortescue.

Painter didn't need to read the journal to know that the man must have stayed here after the Lewis and Clark party left, intending to be the guardian and protector of this great secret. He must have gone native while he lived with the Indians, been accepted by them-and from the care with which his body had been laid, well loved.

Painter turned away. "Rest well, my friend. Your long vigil is over."

Chin stood by an open door at the back of the room. His words were awash with terror. "Director, you need to see this."

Painter crossed to Chin, who pointed his flashlight out the back door of the Holy of Holies. Hank and Kowalski joined them.

Beyond the threshold, steps led down to an expansive room that stretched far back and wrapped to either side of the inner sanctum.

"This is the temple's treasure room," Hank said.

Painter gaped, unable to speak.

Instead, it was Kowalski who summarized their situation the most succinctly.

"We're fucked."

5:57 A.M.

With his cheek against his rifle's stock, Major Ashley Ryan peered through his scope. Fifty yards away, Bern swept his arm down, his face bright with the flush of the final kill. Across the valley, commandos rose from hiding, preparing to charge the castle.

"Major?" Marshall asked.

Ryan had no consoling words for the kid. Or for Boydson, who sat slumped with his back to the boulders, clutching a dagger in his hand, his last weapon. His two men were barely into their twenties. Boydson had a new baby boy. Marshall had plans to propose to his girlfriend the following week, had even picked out the ring.

Ryan kept his focus forward.

He intended to take out as many of the enemy as possible, to make them pay in blood for each of his men's lives.

He studied Bern through his scope, needing him to be closer. He did not have ammunition to waste. Each round from here on had to count.

I want you.

Ryan, though, would not get the honor of this kill.

As he peered, Bern's hands suddenly clutched his throat. Blood spouted thickly from his mouth. An arrow had pierced through his neck. The big man fell to his knees as a savage whooping and hollering rose all around the valley. It echoed eerily off the canyon walls, causing Ryan's hair to practically stand on end.

A crashing behind him made Ryan roll himself around. He swung up his weapon, coming close to shooting Jordan in the chest. The young man bounded briskly up to the major. Ryan thought the kid had been buried farther back in the nest of boulders-where he'd been ordered to remain.

But Jordan was winded, his clothes damp and torn in places. Clearly Ryan's instructions had been ignored.

Jordan skidded next to him as the screams grew louder, setting Ryan's teeth on edge.

"I've got movement out in the woods!" Marshall yelled. "Shadows all around. Every direction!"

"Sorry that took so long," Jordan said. "We didn't want to be spotted until we had the valley completely encircled."

The young man shifted up and stared beyond the boulders.

As the major's gaze turned in the same direction, he noted that the kid seemed to be purposefully avoiding eye contact. Across the valley floor, the remaining members of Bern's team, leaderless now as the giant lay flat on his face in the grass, milled about in the valley. Some ducked back into cover.

But there was no cover any longer.

A sharper cry pierced the valley, and a volley of arrows swept out of the forest and dropped from every direction, hailing down atop the commandos' positions. Screams of shock and bloody pain now joined the war cries echoing off the wall.

Rifles fired at shadows.

Return fire followed from the forest.

Commandos fell one by one. Ryan could now make out shadows as the hidden hunters moved in. They wore no recognizable uniform. He spotted some military outfits, but most of the men simply wore jeans, boots, and T-shirts-though a few had on nothing but breechclouts and moccasins.

But they all had one thing in common.

They were Native Americans.

With the war clearly won, but not wanting to take any chances, Ryan waved to his men. "Get to our packs, haul them over here."

In case things went sour again, he wanted ammunition.

Jordan sank back down, breathless, and explained. "Before flying here, Painter had Hank and me roust up men we trusted fully from our tribes, from others. He arranged transports and helicopters. Once Painter knew where in Yellowstone we were going, he had our forces dropped into place before everyone got here. He didn't trust that the French guy wouldn't pull something like this."

Damned right, there...

"Our guys kept hidden way back in the valley. They came close to being spotted a few times, but we know how to move through the woods unseen when we want to. Once the fighting started, I went out to report on force levels and positions to coordinate the attack."

Ryan stared at Jordan with new eyes. Who was this kid? But he was still pissed.

"Why didn't Crowe tell me? Why didn't he involve the Guard to begin with?"

Jordan shook his head. "Seems there was some concern about infiltration. I don't really know. Some problems out east with traitors in the government. Painter wanted to go old school here, sticking to his blood."

Ryan sighed. Maybe that was for the best.

Jordan searched around the castle. "Where's Kawtch?"

Ryan realized he hadn't seen the mutt since he'd gotten shot. He felt a flicker of guilt for his disrespectful lack of concern. The dog had saved his life.

Jordan spotted the small body in the weeds, not moving.

The kid rushed over. "Oh, Kawtch."

Before Ryan could offer sympathy or apology, Boydson came running up, threw down his pack, and held out the radio. "It's for you. Washington has been trying to raise you."

Washington?

The major lifted his radio. "Major Ryan here."

"Sir, this is Captain Kat Bryant." Ryan could feel the urgency in her voice pouring steel into his spine. Something was wrong. "Do you have access to Painter Crowe?"

Ryan looked over to the hole. With no radio contact through solid rock, someone would have to go down there. "I can reach him, but it might take a few minutes."

"We don't have a few minutes. I need you to get word to Painter immediately. Tell him the physicists have revised their timetable based on cleaner data. The cache will explode at six-oh-four, not six-fifteen. Is that understood?"

Ryan checked his watch. "That's in four minutes!" He lowered the radio and pointed at Jordan. Ryan needed to send someone Painter would trust without hesitation. "Kid, how fast can you run?"

6:00 A.M.

Painter pointed his flashlight into the treasure vault behind the Holy of Holies.

Hundreds of stone plinths supported golden skulls of every shape and size: fanged cats, ivory-tusked mastodons, domed cave bears, even what looked like the massive skull of an allosaurus or some other saurian beast. Amid them also stood scores of canopic jars, some etched with ancient Egyptian motifs, possibly originals carried over from their ancient home. But there were clearly others that had been modeled on local animals: wolves again, but also birds of every beak, mountain lion and other cats, grizzly bears, even a curled rattlesnake.

"We'll never be able to move all this in time," Chin said. "We have only fifteen minutes."

Kowalski nodded. "Time for Plan B, boss." He looked over at Painter. "You do have a Plan B, right?"

Painter headed back into the main temple. "We can try to move as much as we can. Maybe lessen the chance it'll ignite Yellowstone's caldera."

Kowalski followed, pitching other ideas like hardballs. "How about we come down here with blowtorches? Doesn't heat kill this stuff?"

"Take too long," Chin said. "And I don't think a flame's even hot enough."

"Then how about we drop a bunker buster up top."

Painter fielded that one. "We're too deep."

"What about the nuclear option?"

"Last resort," Painter said. "And we might end up causing what we're trying to prevent."

Kowalski tossed his arms high. "There's got to be something we can do."

As they entered the Holy of Holies chamber, a thin figure burst through the gold chain curtain. He skidded to a stop, gaping momentarily at all the gold.

Kai stepped toward him. "Jordan...?"

He held up a hand, panting to catch his breath. "Washington called... timetable got shortened... stuff is gonna blow at six-oh-four."

Painter didn't have to check his watch. His internal clock had been counting down all on its own. Two minutes. All eyes stared at him for some solution, some insight.

They were out of options-except for one.

He pointed to the door. "Run!"