The Third Gate

33

The last time Logan saw the Staging Area was on the day of the dive accident. The huge, echoing room had been crowded then. It was even more crowded now. At least a dozen people were monitoring the wall of instrumentation, and a small army of assistants and technicians were massed in the center, crowding around the Maw, all talking animatedly.

Slowly, Logan approached them. The huge flat-panel monitor that had displayed the chessboard-like grid of the Sudd floor was now dark, its purpose fulfilled. Tall racks of sodium vapor lights were aimed into the Maw. As he drew close, he could make out Tina Romero in the crowd. She spotted him, detached herself from the group, and came over.

“I heard you invited yourself along,” she said. “Stone must really dig you.”

Logan shrugged. “What’s not to dig?”

“You want a list?”

The banter was light, but Logan detected an edge in her voice. He knew what she was feeling, because he felt it himself. Great excitement to be here for this, perhaps the most important day in archaeology since Schliemann discovered Troy-but also deep and pervasive anxiety over what King Narmer might have in store for them.

Porter Stone was standing to one side with Frank Valentino. He glanced at his watch, then said something to Valentino, who immediately raised a bullhorn. “Attention!” the chief barked. “Break it up, please. Back to your stations.”

Slowly, in ones and twos, the people drifted away from the Maw. Now Stone and Valentino approached, along with two burly roustabouts. Stone nodded at Tina and Logan in turn. “Ready?”

“Yes,” they replied in tandem.

“This is how we’ll proceed. Valentino’s men will go first, followed by myself, Tina, Dr. March, Dr. Rush, and then Jeremy here. We’ve already lowered most of the equipment we’ll need down to the air lock platform. Once we’ve established that the site is secure, we will perform a close examination of the gate itself, followed by a test core. Only then will we break the seal and enter. This first penetration of the tomb will be limited to a visual reconnaissance only-everything will be recorded on video, but nothing is to be touched, save samples taken for analysis by Tina and Ethan Rush. Is that understood?”

While he had been speaking, Ethan Rush and Fenwick March joined the group. Everyone nodded.

“Good. Then put on your respirators and gloves. We’ll communicate via radio.”

Following Tina’s example, Logan stepped over to a small wheeled lab table, picked up a pair of latex gloves, and pulled them on. Then he took a respirator from among several lying on the table and snugged it over his mouth and nose. He attached the radio clip to his belt and turned it on.

All the others did the same. Valentino’s men wore small backpacks, as did Ethan Rush. Tina hoisted a compact videocam.

And then they were ready. Stone looked at each in turn, then glanced at Valentino’s men and gave them a thumbs-up. As the two stepped over to the Maw, Logan was surprised by a spontaneous burst of applause from the various technicians and assistants; instead of going back to their posts, as instructed, they had gathered near the industrial rolling ladder and were watching the seven as they prepared to descend to the tomb.

Logan hung back, watching, as-one after the other-Valentino’s two men walked to the Maw, grasped the metal railing, swung their legs over, and slowly descended out of sight. Next went Stone, then Romero, then March, then Rush.

And then it was his turn. With a deep breath, he stepped to the edge of the Maw, grasped the railing, and peered over its edge.

The last time he’d done that, the Maw had been merely a portal to the Sudd below. Black, evil-smelling muck had filled it to the rim. Now, however, he found himself staring down a long, gently sloping yellow tunnel, made of some heavy, flexible material. At least a dozen cables of various colors and thicknesses ran down into its flanks, like veins. The tunnel-the Umbilicus, as it was called-was slightly narrower than the Maw itself. It was stiffened against the external pressure of the Sudd by wooden bracings, set in an overlapping hexagonal pattern, each support structure placed about two feet from the next. A pulley system of some kind ran down the left flank, apparently for bringing heavier items down to or up from the tomb. A series of lozenge-shaped LEDs was arrayed down the upper edge of the tube in an unbroken line, bathing the Umbilicus in cool light. Heavy foot- and handholds were set down its length. Below him, he could see the others, descending hand under hand toward what they had termed the Lock.

Taking another deep breath, he took hold of the railing, swung himself over, made sure his footing was secure, then began to descend.

“Stone here,” the voice crackled over his radio. “I’ve reached the outer air lock platform.”

Logan descended, careful to keep his breathing regular. The Umbilicus was spotless: there was no trace of mud along its inner walls. The air that came through his respirator had only the faintest scent of rotting vegetation. And yet he found himself unable to forget, even for a moment, the vile ooze that pressed in on them from all sides of the tube.

The descent itself was easy enough. He’d assumed that the Station would be anchored directly over the tomb and that they would need to climb straight down, ladder-style. But Porter Stone, always thinking ahead, had positioned the Station at a sufficient distance to give the Umbilicus a forty-five-degree angle from vertical, allowing for relatively easy journeys up and down. As Logan descended, he noticed that the pieces of wooden bracing became thicker, no doubt compensating for the increased pressure from outside.

Within three minutes he had joined the group on the air lock platform. He looked around curiously. The platform was actually formed out of the base of the Umbilicus: a metal catwalk, roughly ten feet on each side. Beneath it, four thick metal supports pierced the yellow material of the tube and disappeared below, presumably anchored to the bed of the Sudd. The spots where the supports exited the base of the tube were composed of metal sleeves, their edges thickly sealed with latex, rubber, and narrow bands of steel.

In one corner of the platform, several large evidence lockers had been carefully stacked. Beside them were various archaeological tools and equipment for examining, stabilizing, and even field curation of ancient artifacts.

Three of the walls of the platform resembled the rest of the Umbilicus: hexagonally braced and thickly veined with cabling. The fourth wall, however, held a heavy circular door of an opaque material, as round as a bank vault’s and seemingly as impregnable.

With all seven of them standing on the platform, there was precious little room to spare. For a moment, nobody spoke, looking instead at the others through their respirators. There was a tension in the air no one seemed eager to break. Finally, Stone pressed the Transmit button of his radio.

“Stone here,” he said. “We’re proceeding.”

“Roger that,” came the voice from the control station above.

Then-with Tina Romero videotaping-Stone moved toward the heavy door. “I’m opening the Lock,” he said. He carefully unscrewed four large bolts in the circular panel, one at each point of the compass. Then, taking hold of a thick handle at its center, he pulled the door free of its enclosing hatch.

It swung open on silent hinges. Just beyond, Logan could see the face of dressed granite that sealed the entrance to Narmer’s tomb. The boulders and mud that had helped keep it from the elements had been completely removed, leaving nothing but the courses of granite and the surrounding igneous matrix that formed the mouth of the volcanic cavity. The polished granite wall gleamed in the reflected light of the Umbilicus. Aside from the two seals, the rock contained no markings whatsoever. What had seemed so far away in the video feeds of the divers, so remote and unearthly, now stood directly before him, mere feet away.

Logan was aware that his heart was beating faster now, almost painfully so. The air lock itself had been fixed to the irregular surface of igneous rock by thick rubber gaskets, made airtight by some kind of compound and held in place by the same kind of metal rods that anchored the outer platform to the bottom of the Sudd.

Now Stone and Fenwick March came forward, each carrying magnifying glasses and powerful flashlights. As the others watched, the two examined every inch of the granite surface, probing and pressing gently with gloved hands. The process took almost fifteen minutes. Satisfied at last, they stepped back out onto the platform.

“Tina?” Stone said over the radio. “Would you examine the seals, please?”

Tina took the magnifying glass and flashlight from March and stepped forward. Peering closely, she examined first the upper necropolis seal, then-getting down on her knees-the royal seal at the base of the granite courses. Each was fixed in place by two bronze pikes, one at either end, with thin bronze wires wound between them in curls that reminded Logan of a hangman’s noose. On the right-hand end of each seal was a fist-sized piece of reddish pottery, encasing both the wire and the spike. Into this had been set the actual hieroglyphic impressions.

“Well?” Stone asked.

“They’re completely intact,” she said. Logan could hear a faint tremor in her voice. “But this serekh-there’s something unusual about it. It’s of a form unknown to me.”

“But it’s definitely Narmer’s seal?”

“The hieroglyphs are that of the catfish and the chisel-the rebus for Narmer’s name.”

“Very good. Get ready, please.”

Romero rose to her feet. As she ran the video camera, both March and Stone again stepped up beside her. Stone held a small evidence box, its bottom lined with cotton; March held a scalpel and forceps. While the rest waited in anxious silence, March very cautiously brought the scalpel up against the necropolis seal. With a slow, methodical motion, he brought the scalpel down across the seal, cutting it in two. Then, with equally cautious movements, he used the scalpel and the forceps to tease the seal away from the granite and place the pieces into Stone’s box.

Logan realized he was holding his breath. Quite consciously he expelled it, took in fresh air. Despite the high tension of the moment, he could not help but be impressed by the care Stone and his team were taking not only to record the entire event but to carefully conserve the elements of the tomb. Stone was no treasure hunter: he was a careful archaeologist, bent on preserving the past rather than destroying it.

Now the three had moved to the larger, royal seal. March placed his scalpel at the top of the seal. Then he paused. A minute went by, then two.

The tension in the Lock became almost palpable. This was it: once the royal seal was broken, the tomb would be in a state of desecration. Logan swallowed. Any man who dares enter my tomb will meet an end certain and swift. I, Narmer the Everliving, will torment him and his, by day and by night, waking and sleeping, until madness and death become his eternal temple.

“Fenwick?” Stone’s mild voice sounded over the radio.

The archaeologist started. Then he bent closer over the seal, and-with a slow, slicing movement-drew the scalpel down through it, cutting it in two.

There was a general exhalation of breath from the assembled group that needed no radio to be heard. “Now we’ve done it,” Tina said very quietly.

March took the two pieces of the seal and placed them into Stone’s box. Then Stone, March, and Romero all stepped away from the granite wall. Every move seemed so carefully choreographed it was almost like a ballet.

Stone turned to Dr. Rush. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

Reaching into his backpack, Rush removed a battery-powered drill and a thick bit about twelve inches long. Fixing the bit to the chuck, the doctor approached the granite face, chose a spot directly in the center, placed the bit against the stone, and fired up the drill.

Stone urged the others to keep back as the drill whined. After about sixty seconds, Logan heard the pitch of the drill abruptly drop; Rush was through. There was a low, faint whistling sound as air escaped through the drill hole.

The doctor pressed a plastic plug into the hole he’d made, then put the drill to one side. “The granite’s not particularly thick,” he said over the radio. “Perhaps four inches.” Reaching into his backpack again, he withdrew a strange-looking instrument: a long clear tube, fixed to a plastic housing containing an LED readout. A rubber bladder hung from one side of the housing. Removing the plug from the hole he’d made, Rush threaded the clear tube through the borehole, then pushed a button on the housing. There was a whirring sound as the bladder inflated. Rush pressed additional buttons, then examined the LED display.

“Dust,” he said over the radio. “Particulate matter. High levels of CO 2. But no pathogenic bacteria.”

Logan now understood the purpose of the device. It was the high-tech equivalent of Howard Carter holding a candle up to the air exhaling from King Tutankhamen’s tomb.

“Any fungal concentrations?” Stone asked.

“A full biological study will have to wait until I get back to the medical suite,” Rush replied, “but nothing stands out in a field analysis. There’s a marked absence of fungi, in fact. The tomb microclimate shows no anaerobic bacteria and acceptable levels of aerobic bacteria.”

“In that case, we will proceed. Just to be sure, however, we’ll move decontamination showers into the Staging Area and use them when we exit the Umbilicus.”

As Rush returned his equipment to the backpack, Stone approached the borehole. He had removed something from the boxes at the rear of the air lock: a SWAT-style fiber-optic camera, a light at its tip, its long flexible cable attached to goggles. Fitting the goggles over his bulky respirator, he aimed the tip of the camera at the hole, then threaded it through. For a long moment he stood silently, peering through the goggles into the interior. Then, quite abruptly, he stiffened and gasped.

“God,” he said in a broken whisper. “My God.”

He withdrew the camera from the borehole, slowly pulled the goggles from his head. Then he turned to face the others. Logan was shocked. Stone’s carefully studied nonchalance, his unflappable poise, seemed to have deserted him. Even with his face half covered by a respirator, he looked like someone who had… Logan, heart still beating fast, found it difficult to describe the expression. Like someone, perhaps, who had just gazed upon the face of heaven. Or, perhaps, hell.

Wordlessly, Stone motioned to the two roustabouts. They came forward, one equipped with a small power chisel, the other with a vacuum cleaner attached to a long hose. They numbered each granite slab with a wax pencil, then the first roustabout began clearing away the plaster between the slabs while the other used the vacuum cleaner to suck up the resulting dust. Logan assumed this precaution was taken in the event that the plaster had been laced with poison.

Once the first slab was out, the work proceeded quickly. Before twenty minutes had passed, several of the granite slabs had been stacked to one side of the air lock and a hole large enough to admit a person had been made in the tomb entrance.

Logan glanced at that hole, at the blackness that lay beyond. As if by unspoken consent, nobody had yet shone a light into the tomb, waiting instead until they could enter it.

Now Stone glanced around at the assembled company. He had recovered his voice and at least some of his self-possession. He located Tina Romero, then extended his gloved hand toward the dark opening in the granite wall.

“Tina?” he said over the radio. “Ladies first.”