The Oracle Code

21

Colonel Sergay Linko focused on the cave as he zigzagged up the hill, never letting himself think for a moment that he’d be hit by one of the bullets flying all around him. Another body toppled from the ridge over the cave and splatted on the ground. Acting on reflex, Linko shot the man in the face twice as he passed to confirm the kill.

“Get in here! Quickly!” Professor Boris Glukov waved to him from the cave mouth. “You’re going to get shot!”

Linko knew there was no time to waste. In minutes, the ANP, the ANA, the ISAF, and probably a large contingent of the United States Army were all going to descend on the area. Whatever Glukov had found inside the tomb would be impossible to acquire at that point.

As Linko reached the cave, a warhead from an RPG-7 rocket launcher struck a vehicle twenty meters away. Staggered by the concussive force, the colonel almost went down. Then the professor had his arm and was pulling him into the cave.

“Come on. I’ve got you.”

Linko leaned into the professor, accepting the man’s help. From the corner of his eye, he saw the vehicle struck by the rocket settle back to the earth, already a whirling ball of flames. Twisting spirals of smoke spun up into the sky.

“Are you hit?” Boris Glukov checked him over, obviously concerned.

Deciding to try it the easy way first, Linko turned to the professor and spoke in Russian. “What did you find in the tomb, Professor?”

Startled, Glukov drew back. His hands doubled into fists, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Who are you?”

“No one you know, comrade, but I have my orders, and time is obviously running out. Tell me what I need to know.”

Glukov waited a beat too long before making his reply. “I found a dead man in a tomb. Nothing more.”

Linko stared at him. “I do not believe you. You called your friend Lourds to this site.”

“Only to do a translation on some documents that were also found.”

Some of that was truthful. “What documents?”

Glukov shook his head. “I do not know. I could not read them. That is why I called Thomas and had him come.”

From all his years of interrogation, both in the field and in private basements, with fear alone as a prod, and sometimes with terrible torture tools, Linko knew the professor was telling a half-truth at best.

Abandoning the easy way of getting answers due to the time constraints, Linko decided to go with the easier way. He smashed the butt of his rifle into the professor’s face, knocking the man back against the wall, then throwing a hand against Glukov’s chest to keep him upright.

Bleeding profusely from his split lips and broken nose, Glukov swayed drunkenly. He struggled to focus on Linko.

“Can you hear me, Professor?” Linko released his hold on the man’s chest, slapped the professor’s face hard enough to turn his head, and caught him again before he fell.

“Yes…I hear you…”

“Tell me what you found.”

“A dead man… Only a dead man.”

Linko grabbed the man’s hair and bounced his head on the stone wall behind him. Glukov howled in pain. Linko punched him in the face, hitting his nose again.

“Talk to me, Professor. I do not have much time, and I have no patience at all.”

Glukov’s fingers worked feebly at Linko’s hand on his chest, but his disorientation stripped his strength, and he couldn’t break Linko’s hold. Setting his feet, Linko threw a shoulder into his prisoner and bounced him into the wall again.

“What else did you find?”

Sucking in air, frightened and hurting, Glukov broke. “Scrolls… There were scrolls.”

“What kind of scrolls?”

“About Alexander the Great…”

“What was on those scrolls?”

“I don’t know, I swear. Thomas only got here a short time ago. Even he hasn’t deciphered them yet.”

That excited Linko. He still had a chance to get something substantial for Nevsky. “Are the scrolls still in the tomb?”

“No.”

“Then where are they?”

Glukov thought just for a minute about not answering, or of lying. The thought danced through his watering, fearful eyes. Then it was gone. “Thomas has them. God forgive me.”

When he heard the professor’s final words, Linko knew that the man fully understood his predicament. And he was going out from this life ashamed of himself and his weakness.

Linko smiled at the man and pushed the rifle barrel up under Glukov’s chin. Coldly, he pulled the trigger and watched the top of Boris Glukov’s head shatter as the bullet cored through.

Then the world blew up.

Captain Eddie Trainor, United States Army Airborne pilot of the 101st Airborne Division — designated the Screaming Eagles — banked his UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter toward the target mountain. Through polarized lenses, he stared down at the white-capped mountain. It was an unusual sight. Three winters out of four in this region of Afghanistan, the snow melted nearly as soon as it hit the ground and ran off.

First Lieutenant Blake Shannon pointed at the line of Taliban warriors on top of the mountain. “Got a flanking position set up.”

“I see them.” Trainor nodded and opened the radio frequency that had been set up with the Afghanistan National Police unit on the ground in the firezone. “Major Sarkhosh, this is Captain Trainor of the 101^st Airborne.”

“I read you, Captain.” The man at the other end of the frequency sounded nervous but solid. “Glad to see you.”

“You’ll be gladder in a minute, Major, I guarantee that.” Trainor knew the trapped archeologists were lucky. He and his squad had been running maneuvers and were loaded for bear. In addition to the two 7.62mm machine guns in the cargo area, they also carried a pair of .50-cal GAU-19 Gatling guns and 70mm Hydra 70 rocket pods mounted on the Black Hawk’s stubby wings. “Have you got your people out of the immediate area where the Taliban are?”

“Yes. We have pulled back from the mountain.”

“Excellent news. We’re about to introduce these bloodthirsty terrorists to the twenty-first-century United States Army Airborne.” Trainor nudged the stick forward and armed the rocket pods. “Pick your targets, guys, and make ‘em count.” His thumb slid over the FIRE button as he got a lock on the ridge.

The Black Hawk stuttered a little as the rockets left the pod. A moment later, the warheads struck the ridgeline, and a bouquet of orange and black explosions blossomed along the mountain. Rock and flaming debris tumbled down the face.

Lourds panted for breath as he helped support the wounded ANP officer in the rush to get away from the mountain. He kept trying to turn and look over his shoulder to see where Boris was, but he couldn’t manage that and helping out with the injured man at the same time. Finally, he gave up and concentrated on getting the man to the large cargo truck ahead of them.

Several people had gathered at the truck. Evidently, the ANP officers — those who had survived the initial assault — had decided to pull the archeologists and media people back there. Wounded lay on the ground, and other people huddled in whatever shelter they could find.

Lourds still couldn’t believe how the violence had erupted and swept over the dig as it had. He knew about the Taliban. He’d even seen them in action up close and personal before. But this was utter devastation. It reminded him of far too many close calls he’d had of late.

Insanely, he thought of the ring he’d bought Layla and hoped the bullet that had holed his backpack hadn’t damaged the ring. Of the ring and the scrolls, he didn’t know which he was more prepared to sacrifice. Rings could be replaced, the scrolls couldn’t. But there could never again be the first ring he had bought for Layla.

Another ANP officer came to aid him with the wounded man. Lourds gladly handed him off.

Turning back, Lourds slung the backpack over his shoulder, looking back up the hill. Anna was there, her cheeks burned red from the cold and from her agitated state.

“Where’s Boris?”

Anna shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since the cave.”

“The Russia Today man hasn’t brought him out?”

“No.”

Growling curses, Lourds was certain that Boris had probably insisted on going back into the tomb to save what he could of the artifacts in case the site was robbed before he could get back to it. He knew they’d be leaving, at least for a little while. The ANP, ANA, and ISAF would insist on it. Boris would want to get his hands on everything he could.

Thinking only of his friend, Lourds ran back toward the cave a hundred yards away. The Taliban were scrambling to position themselves for the coming aerial attack. No one noticed his approach as he hid behind available rocks and ridges.

The ANP officer yelled after Lourds. “Come back. The United States Army is approaching.”

He was right. Lourds saw the wicked shapes of the military helicopters against the blue sky, with US markings painted proudly on their sides. They were wide-bodied and had stubby wings with cylinders mounted under them.

As Lourds watched, the helicopters started an approach that took them toward the waiting Taliban. He stretched his stride, going so fast now that he almost couldn’t keep his feet under him. The backpack banged against his shoulders and hips, throwing his balance off.

He couldn’t spot Boris anywhere, not even among the bodies on the cold ground, which was a relief, as he’d been fearing that was what had happened to his friend. He didn’t see the Russia Today man either.

Fifty yards from the cave, Lourds saw both men. They were standing in the passageway, looking like they were simply talking.

Lourds started to yell Boris’s name, then he watched in horrified revulsion as the Russia Today man slid his borrowed rifle under the Russian professor’s jaw. The flat crack of the rifle shot blasted out of the cave, unique among the other small arms fire.

“NOOOOO!” Lourds felt certain that his voice was drowned out in the cacophony of shots and rockets bursting all over the immediate area. Helpless, he watched as Boris dropped from the Russia Today man’s grip.

A series of explosions detonated across the ridge where the Taliban warriors had been hidden.

Lourds stopped running, breathing hard, unable to comprehend the sight of Boris lying so still on the ground and the Russia Today man standing over him.

The man turned and spotted him. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, and Lourds knew he didn’t have time to run.