David Sakmyster - The Cydonia Objective

“Yet he left the Buddhas?”

Phoebe nodded. “Maybe he respected them—or the original builders—too much to risk that sacrilege.”

Orlando sighed. “Something the Taliban could care less about.”

After taking another swig, Temple said to Phoebe, “And I’m guessing that you know about the legends.”

“Always legends,” Orlando said, groaning. He eyed the bar and licked his lips.

Temple noticed his glance. “Help yourself. Self-serve around here.”

Phoebe shifted and leaned forward, still staring at the picture. “Well, when it comes to ancient history I guess I take after my brother and my dad a bit. But you’re right. There are myths about this place, namely that those statues were here long before the Buddhist monks arrived.”

Orlando slowly got to his feet and headed to the bar as Phoebe continued: “Legends claim they were built as ‘imperishable witnesses’, reminders left in the mountain by survivors of the great flood.”

Orlando chose an old bottle of scotch after reading the label and whistling. “Let me guess. Atlanteans?”

Phoebe shrugged. “That’s what some believe. That they migrated here after the sinking of the island, that they built a network of caves within the mountain and under it. And the seventh-century monks only found the Buddhas already here, and used the existing caves as their homes, painting beautiful murals and designs—and also I recall, smoothing out the faces on the statues—and covering their nakedness in plaster robes.”

Orlando returned, sat and raised his glass to the screen. “Well, so much for the ‘imperishable witnesses.’”

Phoebe turned to face Temple. “Why are we really going to Bamian?”

Temple turned off the TV. “I told you, for the Hummingbird.”

“And,” Orlando asked, wincing after a swig. “Where is she? Oh wait, you’re just going to say that it’s up to us to answer that question.”

“Exactly,” Temple said. “But I’m glad you’re not uninformed about the caves and tunnels. Because we know this much from our source: that she’s down there under all that bedrock and sandstone. Somewhere in the very network of miles and miles of caves and tunnels in which we believe many of the terrorists are hiding, waiting us out and coordinating their attacks.”

Orlando finished his drink. “And you want us to…?”

“I didn’t say you two need to go down there,” Temple replied. “You have the unique ability to keep yourselves out of harm’s way and still get the job done. Just find her for us. Tell us exactly where they’re keeping her. And then we’ll go in and get her.”

“Wait.” Phoebe faced them. “You said you had other remote-viewers on your team. The Dove, for one. Why not use them? Why us?”

Temple lowered his head. “We’ve tried, but… there’s been difficulty.”

“Like what?” Orlando asked, swishing the ice around in his glass. He glanced out the window at the expanse of moonlight speckling the shrouded desert below.

“They’re using the Hummingbird’s talents. Blocking us.”

Phoebe’s eyes widened. “She’s a shield?”

Temple slowly nodded. “A very powerful one. They have another, as well. We don’t know too much about this one, except that he’s Al Qaeda too. A top-level member. Highly-trained, and ruthless. His shielding skills and the Hummingbird’s extend to technological surveillance as well.”

“Meaning,” said Orlando, “that you haven’t been able to spy on them? Not with satellites or psychics? No wonder we can’t find any of these terrorist cells.”

Temple rubbed his hands together. “Two shields are needed to be effective. One can’t stay awake and in control of the shield twenty-four-seven. But it’s in those times when the Hummingbird is asleep and the other one is, shall we say, not in complete focus, that we’ve been able to get as far as we have. We know their approximate location. At least as of last night. And so, we were dispatched. First to get you, then to get her. We’ve got a small window of time. It has to be now. Before they move again.”

Orlando refilled his glass, then set it down, seeing Phoebe’s reproachful look. “Yes, but again, I don’t see how we’re going to narrow this down for you. If the shields or whatever are working…”

Temple held up a hand, then set his head back, resting against the seat pillow. He fitted a sleep mask over his eyes. “You’ll do fine.”

“How?” Phoebe asked, almost exasperated.

Turning to his side, Temple said, “Because you two are the best. You’ll find her because you know what questions to ask. Questions that will get you past the shield.”

Orlando snatched up his glass again as he headed back to his seat. “What do you mean, get past it?”

Temple smiled. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat. I trust that you’ll find it.”

“But—” Phoebe started, then gave up as the commander fit headphones over his ears and promptly dozed off.

Orlando shook his head. “And we don’t get to sleep?” He shifted uncomfortably, frowned then looked on the seat below him. He picked up the red folder, sighed, then handed it to Phoebe.

“Guess we’ve got our homework assignment.”

Phoebe nodded reluctantly. “Let’s get to work.”

Cairo Museum of Antiquities

“You’re sure they’re coming this way?”

Mason Calderon leaned on his dragon-headed cane as the commandos barred the entrance doors behind him. The sun was just coming up over the high-rises and the bustling traffic began in earnest outside, while inside his team spread out through the exhibits.

The two boys put down their skateboards, set their feet on them simultaneously and grinned back at Calderon. “Oh yes,” said Isaac. “Our brother will be here soon.”

Calderon felt other eyes upon him, shivered for a moment fearing someone distant might be observing him, but then faced the glass case to his left, where a four-thousand year old bust of Pharaoh Ramses II, cast in limestone, stared back at him. Calderon felt those eyes boring into his soul from across the millennia, cold granite eyes that sought him out—possibly, he thought—as an equal. A fellow seeker after immortality, a king, a divinity forced to exist among lesser beings.

A smile crept on his face, a thin mimicry of Ramses’ expression. Destiny was in his corner, and a long line of worthy predecessors awaited his ascension.

He watched the boys skateboard in and out of shadows and cones of light, gracefully moving among the ancient artifacts, past friezes, mummies, trinkets and weapons, rolling towards sarcophagi and shelves of canopic jars.

“This way, Sir.” One of the commandos led him ahead, as two followed at the rear, leaving another pair guarding the main doors against unwanted intrusion. Outside, the administrator and curators were being briefed about another possible bomb threat, and escorted to a safe perimeter.

Calderon followed the commandos and the boys through the halls, past treasures remarkable and commonplace to the eras from which they were plucked. He thought about the power the boys had, the same one shared by their parents, by Xavier Montross and the others in the Morpheus Initiative. Certainly an entire wing of this museum could be filled with the bones of psychics who claimed to share their ability. Other mystics and prophets who could see the past, and some of them even the future. The woman who glimpsed the opening of Thoth’s box by three brothers must have received some vision and spoke of it in a prophecy that had eventually reached Pharaoh’s ears.

Calderon continued into a stairwell where below, the boys’ voices echoed cheerily. They were carrying their skateboards, laughing as they tapped the boards against the stairs. Still, he thought, a shame he hadn’t been born with the gift. To be chosen for such a task, selected by Destiny, and yet not given all the tools and weapons he should have… How he rued that missing aspect, and yet… Perhaps it was a blessing. It kept him single-minded, without the distraction of curiosity and the power to quench it.