David Sakmyster - The Mongol Objective

The pressure plates were highly sensitive. Sometimes just the touch of her hand, with little weight, set off the statues and she had been forced to make some acrobatic rolls, dodges and ducks just to make it this far. And, by the indication of her flashlight beam probing out an indeterminate distance ahead, over the helmets of countless warriors, she had a long way to go. Their backs were to her, and she believed that fact alone accounted for her continued survival. The attacks were all planned to deal with invaders advancing from the river, not those escaping the mausoleum.

There has to be a better way.

A deep breath, and she smiled as she carefully stood up.

Why didn’t I think of this before?

The tricky part would be providing light, but she thought for a moment and came up with an idea. She had one more flashlight in her pack. She cursed herself for neglecting to salvage a flare gun from the dead Chinese soldiers. She fit her flashlight onto the statue in front of her, fixing it in a groove between his armored shoulder-pad and his neck. It lit the way ahead, the bright beam scattering and diffusing around the multitude of soldiers and horses between her position and the river’s edge.

Then she chose the statue to its left-a crouching warrior gripping two scimitars crossed before his face-and she climbed onto its back by grabbing his head and pulling herself up until she stood on his shoulders. And then she looked out over the helmets, shoulders, saddles and banners lit up in the narrow trail of weakening light. She had to believe this was the right choice, the way Caleb’s group could have crossed this field, if it had occurred to them.

After a breath, deep and cleansing, she willed herself to relax. She bent her knees and stepped out in a long stride, reaching the next warrior’s shoulder in a straddle. Then she pushed off with her right foot and brought it up beside the left. She wobbled and nearly fell over as the statue leaned forward beneath her weight, but it held. She nodded, smiling, and gauged the next move.

She’d have to jump onto the back of a horse, which was preferable to leaping over two yards and trying to gain a foothold on the back of an archer in the same direction.

The horse worked. And from its back it was another simple stretching move to the broad shoulders of a swordsman. She caught her breath, and then carefully proceeded to the next one, and the next. In one area, she breezed through, hopping across a catapult, then dancing along the edge of a chariot, then across the backs of a team of horses. In most cases she didn’t need to jump, only to be nimble. Staying in the light, or at its edges, she made her way to the army’s forefront.

After pausing only to give her straining muscles a rest, she started up again. Near the end of the light’s reach she paused on the back of a stallion surrounded by six archers, took off her pack and retrieved the other flashlight. She shined it left, then right, thenthere. A glint of silver.

The case.

Just where Montross had said it would be.

Nina judged the distance, eyed the best approach accessible from the side. Once there she could easily scoop up the case with the grappling hook, then leapfrog the remaining statues back to the shore. The problem was the darkness. With careful aim, she threw the flashlight in an underhand toss so it rolled between six terra cotta warriors and came to a rest, facing backwards, against something lying on the ground.

Ah, there you are, Agent Wagner.

Nina flexed her legs and leapt to the nearest warrior, hugging him about the neck before climbing to his shoulders.

Five minutes later, she dove, ducked, rolled and then stood up in a crouch, ready to drop flat at the slightest sound. But there was nothing. She looked over her shoulder as she scooped up the light she had thrown this way. The army. Thousands of heads and arms and legs and torsos, all standing motionless in the shadows, glaring at her impassively, perhaps inwardly seething at her escape.

She bent down, grabbed the handle of the silver case she had tossed here, picked it up and walked calmly to the nearest boat.

The way back wasn’t as hard as Alexander had figured. But what made it more difficult was that Phoebe and Orlando were dragging behind, and they all had to go at the slowest member’s pace. Orlando had lost a lot of blood, and they didn’t have much in the way of nourishment or drugs to help him. But they carefully retraced their steps, back through the room with the collapsed ceiling and up the rope, Orlando’s condition making it considerably more difficult. They continued down the corridor and headed left, back across the tricky mosaic floor, which they managed to cross without slipping or touching any trapped stones.

When they reached the upward-sloping ramp, Caleb, his arm around Alexander’s shoulders said, “Almost out.”

“What next?” Phoebe asked, from behind them. “Do we wait for Nina?”

“She’ll be here,” Montross said.

“Then what?” Orlando asked, his voice weak. “I think I can find us some translation software and we can scan in the text.”

“No.” Montross had quickened his pace, walking ahead of them. His voice was still strong and forceful, echoing in the hallway.

Alexander pulled ahead of his father, trying to catch up with Montross, always eager to be first. “I wonder what time it is. Will it be light outside?”

But then Montross turned, and there was movement at his back, like darker patches of shadow pulling away from what Alexander now realized to be the night sky. As he froze, more shapes detached, separated, circled around Montross, and then spread out into the descending passage — surrounding them.

Caleb’s light caught one figure, then another, revealing their black body armor and their face masks. They came equipped with helmets, Kevlar suits, gloves, HK submachine guns, and flashlights attached to their headgear. Beams that suddenly turned on, ten times more intense than their own flashlights. All those beams, stabbing at once, blinding them.

“I’m sorry,” Montross said. “I thought we might have more time, but I knew this was coming.”

“What?” Caleb held up his hand, shielding his eyes. Alexander couldn’t see a thing, having covered his head with his arms. The light was so painful after being in the gloom for hours, and his eyes began to water and his head throb. But then rough hands grabbed his arms and held him fast, just as he heard Phoebe scream.

“Don’t resist.” Montross called out. “Do as they say.”

“That’s right,” came another voice, authoritative and brusque. Footsteps marching down the ramp.

Alexander blinked away the tears, looked up, tried to focus. He saw a large man with his helmet off, short blond hair and a face like an anvil. He spoke into a heavy satellite phone.

“Sir. Yes, we have them.” A pause. Then he aimed a gun-some kind of nasty automatic thing-at Alexander’s face. “One of you kindly hand over the tablet and the keys.”

“We don’t have them,” Caleb protested.

The hammer pulled back.

“He’s right.” Montross again, his voice still surprisingly calm. “We left our treasure back inside the tomb.”

“Bullshit.”

Phoebe cleared her throat. She rose to the occasion quickly, playing along. “Yeah, just go on down there and get it. Take your first left, and then-”

“Shut up.” He turned away. “Edgars, what do you have?”

Alexander saw another man running up, with a box with a handle and a TV screen, and stared at it as he waved it around ahead of him.

“Heat signatures of all present here,” Edgars said. “And one more. Coming towards our location. About ninety yards away.”

The commander nodded. He made a motion with his free hand, and eight commandos slipped away down the ramp. He smiled at Alexander, but kept the gun pointed at his face.