Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

The Israeli had been settled behind some boulders no more than ten minutes when movement in the undergrowth below snapped her to the alert.

A score of Institute security guards, carrying M-16s, were winding their way up the trail toward her, led by Fred Lang-ston. When they were out of the brush, about forty yards away, she shouted, "Halt!" and fired a warning burst.

All but Langston dived for cover. "Hold your fire!" he shouted. "Harrison, is that you?"

"His associate," Zahava called back.

"I'm unarmed and coming up alone." Which he did, topping the rough trail quickly, without visible exertion.

"Where's Harrison," he demanded, ignoring the Uzi's muzzle leveled at his belly.

"Here." John appeared from behind the boulders.

"How ya doin', Freddy?"

"Fames worth!"

Langston turned angrily to John. "Harrison, this area's strictly off limits. We're doing some very delicate work up here. No trespassers."

"I thought I had carte blanche, Langston."

"Certainly, as relates to Argonaut and the murder. But this is totally unrelated. I insist you leave now."

"And if we don't?"

"I'll be forced to expel you." He emphasized "expel."

"How did you find us, Dr. Langston?" Bob asked, surveying the guards deploying along the hillside. "Just happen to be out grouse hunting with this little task force and stumble over us?"

"We have an excellent security system."

"One more appropriate to the Manhattan Project," said John. "Once I make a few phone calls, Langston, expect a visit in force from the FBI. I'd like to hear you explaining your need for automatic weapons."

"You have three minutes to be on your way." Turning, he started back down the trail.

"Hey, Freddy, I found it," Greg said, leaning insouciantly against a boulder. Langston froze for an instant, then resumed walking, seeming not to have heard.

"Take cover," John said. "It's their move." He joined Zahava behind the rocks, pistol drawn.

The guards had used the*time to find better positions. Reaching them, the Director barked an order, diving for cover.

A hail of M-16 slugs ricocheted off the rocks. The barrage was so intense that John and Zahava couldn't return the fire. It was only a matter of moments until a bullet would find one of the four.

Turning to gauge a possible retreat over the hilltop, John saw two black-uniformed figures low-crawling along the crest. Sighting carefully, he snapped off five quick shots.

One man rolled backward, out of sight, his short, blunt weapon clattering down the hill. The other beat a hasty retreat.

"Cover me!" Greg shouted above the din. As John and Zahava drew the guards' fire, the geologist scampered out onto the trail and back again, clutching his prize: the fallen man's weapon.

"M-Seventy-Nine grenade launcher," he panted, breaking open the breach. "Haven't seen one of these since 'Nam." He snapped the weapon shut.

"We can't stay here and we can't retreat," said John, reloading his pistol. "Can you use that?"

"I can put one right in their laps."

"Bob, when you hear the detonation, you and Greg run for the passageway. Zahava and I'll cover."

McShane nodded curtly.

"Now!"

Sighting carefully, Greg fired. The grenade exploded between two of Langston's men, hurling them into the scrub. John and Zahava emptied their magazines into the guard force. Weak, ineffectual fire responded.

"Let's get out of here!" They ran after the others.

"Where's Bob?" John asked Greg, waiting for them inside the open entrance.

"In the altar chamber. Wait a sec, I'll close this." He shined his light at a point inside the doorway parallel to the sensing device on the outside. The rock swung silently shut. Descending to the altar chamber, they found Bob busily examining the altar.

"Think they'll follow?" asked Zahava.

"No. Langston obviously knows what's here and how to get in. And he knows we'd slaughter his men in that narrow passageway."

"Now what?" Greg asked as he and John sat on a bench, sharing a canteen. "You're the specialist."

John shrugged. "If we wait, maybe they'll go away. Unless you've a better suggestion."

"Inspiring."

"Come, come, Greg," said Bob, looking up from the pedestal. "We're doing very well. In one day we've uncovered the villain, made archaeological history and stood off a band of desperados. Now all we have to do is get out alive."

"You can continue your briefing now, Bob," John said. "We're not pressed for time."

"My pleasure." He sat atop the altar, legs crossed, stick by his side. "Let me recap for Zahava what happened while she was topside." Which he did, continuing in his best seminar manner, "So finding this site creates more mysteries than it solves. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of pre-Columbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar.

"The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. Caesar himself says so in the third book of his De Bella Gallico, the Gallic Commentaries.

"Trade between this continent and Europe, we may speculate, effectively ended with the rise of Roman might. The colonists were then absorbed by the 'natives,' themselves the children of previous colonies, their heritage long forgotten. From these peoples came the various Amerindian tribes.

"That, at least, is how archaeology, once it confronts this find, will explain it. What it will not, cannot, explain is the concealment of this site by a sophisticated technology-one possibly in advance of our own and evidently dating from the site's construction.

"Equally bizarre is the seemingly successive sharing of this site by the diverse peoples who touched these shores. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries.

"Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep this a secret? I'm sure it has nothing to do with his career goals."

"Aren't you leaping rather quickly to conclusions, Professor?" asked Greg.

"What's your alternative? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?"

Greg nodded.

Bob smiled, shaking his head. "By whom-to what end? Every effort's been made to conceal this place, not to foist it on the academic community. Also, and this is intangible, it feels old."

He was right. They all felt it, an aura of antiquity pervading the altar, the stone tiers, the tunnel and stairs worn smooth by feet eons dust.

"'The dark and backward abysm of time,'" John quoted softly.

The heavy thud of explosions rocked their sanctuary, sending them diving to the hard floor amidst a shower of falling rock.

"They're blowing their way in!" Greg shouted as the din continued.

"No." John picked himself up as quiet returned. "I think they've sealed us in."

A quick trip up to the entrance proved him right. There was ito winking green light. The door wouldn't budge under their combined efforts.

"Clever," said Zahava. "Letting our thirst kill us."

Somber, they rejoined Bob. Seemingly undeterred by the prospect of a lingering death, he was still exploring the altar by the fading beam of his light.

"There's got to be another way out," said John, shining his own light along the chamber walls.

"No, there doesn't," said Bob. "But in fact, there is. Voild!" He rose from his knees before the altar as the massive capstone swung soundlessly aside. A ladder of gleaming alloy, fastened to the side of the altar well, plunged into the dark beyond the range of their lights.

"Curiouser and curiouser," Bob mumbled, lowering himself gingerly onto the top rung. "What are you waiting for?" he growled as they hesitated. "We'll be as dead as this place is if we don't find another exit."