David Sakmyster - The Mongol Objective

“The real Xanadu,” Caleb said.

Qara bowed her head, whispering something in Mongolian.

“Wait,” Renee said, pointing ahead, to the quarter-mile field stretching before the immense wall. Hard to see with the flares so high up, but it looked like the ground was composed of ridges, bumps and pockets. “Flares. Fire them straight ahead, now.”

As the men prepared to shoot, Phoebe cautioned, “I don’t think you want to see this.”

Three flares streaked out from the first boat, heading off at slightly different angles. The first struck something only fifty feet out, fizzled and then dropped. The other two went farther; one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet.

Then each struck something and held, smoking, casting the surrounding area in a ghastly glow.

“Double crap,” Orlando said.

Twenty-thousand strong, they stood organized by their regiments, infantry on the right, cavalry in the center; archers on the higher ground to the left; and chariots, catapults, siege machines and banners on immense poles interspersed throughout. Grayish-white terra cotta statues, each one carved perfectly, detailed down to the grooves in their armor, the notches on the saddles, the hardened eyes brimming with loyalty, ferocity and menace.

“The welcoming party,” Caleb said. “Genghis’s army.”

Montross covered his face with his sleeve while Hiltmeyer and Harris coughed, backing away from the boat. “No way,” the colonel said, pointing to the cavern and the river with the silvery sheen that bent around a quick curve and headed into the blackest reaches beyond their flashlights’ beams.

“Hang on,” Montross said. He backed up, closed his eyes and hugged the Emerald Tablet close. “Alexander, let’s see how your father handled this from his side.”

“Masks,” the boy said at once. He was rubbing his eyes, also breathing through his shirt. “I saw them. All the soldiers had them, and they left three behind. For us.”

“Three?” Harris said, choking on the word. “Come on!”

“Easy,” said Montross. “Nina, go fetch them, and-”

“Be careful, I know.” She smiled wolfishly. “Your concern for me is touching.”

“I just want my mask.”

As she left, Montross pulled Alexander back to the tunnel leading from the room with the trap ceiling. “We’ll wait for her here where the air’s clearer.”

“What about us?” Harris asked.

Montross shrugged. “Tear your shirts, or jackets. Make yourselves something to cover your faces.”

Hiltmeyer grumbled, “You’ll poison us.”

“Either that, or I’ll shoot you.” Montross waved the Ruger. “Your choice.” He cleared his throat, then turned to the boy. “And you, Alexander, I need you to use this time to scout out the area ahead while I keep an eye on these clowns.”

Alexander shook his head. “But I don’t want to. Anytime I try, I know I’ll just see Dad, and I can’t, don’t want to see…”

“See what?”

“Can’t bear it.” He shook his head, covering his eyes. “What if I see him die, too?”

Montross knelt down and switched his gun to his other hand, still keeping an eye on their prisoners. “Just focus your mind, ask yourself a question, and only think about that question when you let your visions come.”

“What question?”

“Jeez, didn’t your father teach you anything? Never mind. I already know: ‘Learn by doing, learn from experience.’ Still, you must have sat in and listened to the Morpheus Initiative sessions.”

“A few times,” Alexander admitted.

“Well then, you know how it is. The question frames your visionary experience. You remote view what you’ve asked your mind to show you. In this case,”-he waved beyond, to the darkness along the river-“we need to know what’s waiting for us. Ask to be shown any traps on this river, anything that could stop us from reaching the great underground cavern and the city of Genghis Khan.”

“Too vague,” Alexander said.

“What?”

“The question. I know enough about it, as you said. I sat in on a lot of sessions with my dad, with Aunt Phoebe. I know you can’t have those multiple-part questions. Or you get crappy visions, something that just might get us killed.”

Montross grinned. “All right, smarty-pants. Just remote view the next section of this river. Period.”

Alexander nodded. “I’ll try. And I’ll try not to see my dad.”

“Try hard,” Montross said. “I know it’s not easy to pull away from your feelings, or your fears, but it’s the only way. If you want to see him again, trust that he knows what he’s doing, and trust that for this part, we need your skills. Go to it.”

“Can I touch the tablet first?”

Montross held it out, balancing it in the palm of his right hand, watching as it reflected in the boy’s deep brown eyes, mixing with his irises, turning them a swirling shade of green.

Alexander reached for it slowly, his fingers trembling.

Nina found the masks, as predicted, on the shore beside the two posts and empty chains that had tethered two boats. She waved her flashlight ahead, scoping out the area, but couldn’t see a thing. She held her breath, sucking in a whiff of the foul, toxic air and holding it just to listen.

From somewhere, far, far off, something loud, a report followed by another muffled thump echoing along the stretch of the dark underground waterway, reached her ear. A tiny ripple stirred along the shore.

She didn’t need to be psychic to know that the other team faced something deadly at the end of the waterway. But all the same, she felt a twinge, a sudden connection with someone.

And it wasn’t Montross.

Caleb.

She felt him, saw through his eyes just for a brief instant…

… a flickering field of immobile warriors, thousands-strong, weapons ready, facing them, barring their advance.

Why? Nina thought. Why did I glimpse that? Why Caleb? Why now?

She took the masks and slowly backed away, shaking her head, clearing that nagging sight, when something else, something that suddenly blossomed like an exploding fireworks display in her mind…

Two sets of small hands, gripped by larger ones, held in a grandfatherly grasp.

Two hands… belonging to two boys.

Two scared boys, looking out over a harbor from a great height, gazing out at hundreds of boats while a raspy voice whispered of destiny.

Nina trembled.

She coughed, fell to her knees, heaving. Gasping.

What… the hell… was that?

She closed her eyes, but the visions were gone, leaving behind nothing but wispy shadows.

She gathered up the masks and stumbled back to Montross.

They pushed off as Nina stood behind the rowers, Hiltmeyer and Harris. She had a gun in each hand, the Beretta in her left, the muzzles at the back of their heads, and she couldn’t help but feel like a slave master on the old Roman galleons, ready to execute whoever dropped out of pace first.

Harris complained through his makeshift face mask of his torn sleeve tied around his neck and across his mouth. Colonel Hiltmeyer only rowed in silence, his eyes burning as each stroke released fumes that stung at his eyes.

“What next?” Montross asked.

Alexander sat in the front, gas mask wrapped extra tight around his head. He held up a hand. Then pointed. “Hug the right wall.”

Nina nudged the gun against Harris’s head, prodding him to row harder, pushing the boat in that direction.

“Farther,” Alexander said, scanning the rooftop as nervousness crept into his voice. “Otherwise we’re bowling pins.”

Montross directed his flashlight along the ceiling, locating a huge round ball tucked into a niche in the center, to their left now as they steered around it. “Good catch, kid. What else?”