Jack Du Brul - The Medusa Stone

The helicopter vanished behind an expanding blossom of fire, and when it finally reemerged, the six rotor blades and the top third of the aircraft were gone. The Super Stallion was dead in the air, only its forward momentum carrying it in a flagging parabola. Mercer didn’t blink until it slammed into the cobalt-blue sea, fire from its ruptured tanks washing away on the waves spawned by the impact. In a second it was gone.

“Get us to the Arabian coast and under their radar umbrella,” Mercer shouted to the pilot, but the veteran was way ahead of him. The chopper settled into a flight path scant feet above the sea, the engines torqued for maximum speed.

“Those jets are breaking off and returning north,” the copilot yelled a minute later.

Mercer was too tired to care, but he gave a weak cheer for the crew’s benefit. “Let’s get back to the mine. We’re not done yet.”

It took forty minutes, and on the inbound flight they heard radio chatter from other Blackhawks ferrying the injured to the amphibious assault ship.

Habte was the first to greet Mercer on the ground, shaking his hand solemnly, then enfolding him in a brotherly hug that would add another day or two to the recovery time for Mercer’s broken ribs.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Habte tried to keep the emotion out of his voice but failed.

“Came damn close.”

Selome was next to reach the little group huddled near the Blackhawk. She too hugged Mercer, much more gently, but her kiss was consuming-as if she was trying to fit every possible emotion into that one gesture. Mercer’s response was no less enthusiastic.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” She preempted his question.

“The Marines have already freed the miners, and they’ve been sent with the worst of the injured to their base ship.”

Mercer was still on an adrenaline high. Everything felt otherworldly. An hour ago he had been fighting for his life, and now he was holding hands with a beautiful woman, surrounded by grimy but satisfied soldiers. It would take a long time for everything to soak in, the horror and the pain, but for just a few minutes he felt like he was invincible, and the thought made him grin.

“That’s great, but I was about to ask if you are ready for that vacation yet?”

A Marine approached, extending his hand to Mercer. Behind him, two guards held Giancarlo Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer. The smile vanished from Mercer’s face, his gray eyes going deadly flat.

“Captain James Saunders, USMC,” the redheaded Marine introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Mercer.”

“Honor’s mine, Captain.” Mercer grasped the outstretched hand. “On behalf of all of us, thank you.”

“Just doing our job, sir,” the Marine demurred. “I thought you might want to see these two characters before I shipped them out of here. The FBI already has agents in Asmara to escort them to Europe, where they’re going to stand trial.”

“I’ve seen enough ugliness in the past weeks to want to pass up this last opportunity. Thanks anyway.”

“Fair enough.” Saunders gestured for the guards to take the two to a waiting helicopter, but when they were just a couple of steps away, Mercer reconsidered. “One second, Captain.”

Both captives were filthy and looked ravaged by their attempt to flee the battle, yet both were also uninjured. Mercer addressed Hofmyer first. “I’ve already kicked your ass once, so I’m not even going to bother with you.” Then he directed his hatred at Gianelli. The Italian yelped when Mercer’s murderous eyes fell on him.

“You, on the other hand, well, this I’m going to enjoy.” Mercer cocked his fist, centering Gianelli’s face perfectly, but he stayed his hand. “Screw it. You’re not worth the effort.”

Gianelli sagged with relief and stared goggle-eyed when Mercer turned away.

“Like hell you’re not.” Mercer twisted back and slammed Gianelli, the punch rolling the industrialist’s eyes into his skull and laying him flat in the dirt. “Thank you, Captain Saunders. I think I needed that.”

Selome ducked under one of Mercer’s arms and Habte braced up the other, so he walked between the two of them, using them for support. Then he straightened, the old fire returning, his face lit with a devilish thought. “What do you say we go find Gianelli’s safe and see what all this fuss has been about?”

In a land where nearly every building and hillock and cave has significance, few sites are as awe-inspiring or sacred as King Herod’s fortress at Masada. It sits atop a diamond-shaped mountain, commanding a view unlike any other in the world. The Dead Sea-earth’s deepest spot-lies in its shadow, over a thousand feet below sea level, the salty haze reflecting off the lifeless waters making it impossible to distinguish the Jordanian coast just seven miles away.

Masada had been built as an unassailable defensive fort but became a favorite retreat to King Herod, who’d spared nothing in making its opulence legendary. It had two separate palaces and a swimming pool that was kept full year-round despite the brutal Judean summers. However, it’s not the architecture that makes Masada so significant, it’s what happened there during the Great Revolt in the first century A.D. when Jewish Zealots battled with their Roman masters.

During the revolt, Masada was captured by Menachen Ben Yehuda and became a retreat for the Zealots. And after four years of warfare and another three of siege, it also became their last stand. Using Jewish slaves, the Romans constructed a huge ramp to the top of the mountain, an impressive engineering feat for the time, and when they finally broached the fortress walls, they discovered a funeral pyre. Surrounded by the Roman Tenth Legion under the command of Procurator Flavius Silva, 967 Jews chose suicide rather than submit to the army who’d besieged them.

Like the Western Wall, Masada has become a tangible link to Jewish history, a site of pilgrimage and reverence. Today, every soldier inducted into the Israeli Defense Force has his swearing-in ceremony on the windswept thirty-acre shrine, a reminder of the heroism and strength of his people.

That was why Prime Minister David Litvinoff was so angry as his Aerospatiale helicopter descended through the night, its landing lights shining brightly on the sandy hill top. How dare Levine soil this spot by agreeing to his surrender here? His brazenness knew no bounds.

Levine had disappeared shortly after Harry White had been taken back to the United States. He’d narrowly missed an arrest, and since then, Shin Bet had been unable to locate him. Litvinoff was assured it would only be a matter of time, but after two weeks, it seemed the Defense Minister would never resurface, even as he continued to work to his goal of recovering the Ark of the Covenant. Levine had even managed to get fighter jets scrambled on his orders and a cargo helicopter sent to Eritrea to rescue his team there. The fighter pilots hadn’t known their mission wasn’t government sanctioned but they had still been dismissed from active duty pending a further investigation.

Litvinoff’s chopper settled lightly and two soldiers sprang out, night-vision goggles scanning the parade ground south of Herod’s principal palace, weapons at the ready. The engine spooled to silence, the rotor blades beating the air slower and slower until they sagged like limp palm fronds.

Litvinoff unhooked his seat belt and stepped to the ground. “If Levine wanted me dead,” he reassured one of his personal guards, “he wouldn’t have let us land.”

Levine had called that morning, acting like he hadn’t a care in the world and told Litvinoff that he would surrender himself, but only if the Prime Minister met him at Masada.