David Sakmyster - The Mongol Objective

The side door opened. Inside, a hallway flickered into view as floor-lamps filled with glowing light, like a runway guiding them in.

“Time to move,” Montross said, a spring in his step. “And trust me, we don’t die down here in this sprawling, sadistic labyrinth of hell, one that I fear might make Genghis Khan’s place look like a kid’s playpen.” He stopped, glancing back, frowning. “Well, at least I know I don’t die.”

Despite Caleb’s assessment, Phoebe remained restrained in the back of the helicopter, along with Orlando, until the pilot, acting on orders transmitted over his headset, came into the cabin and cut them free. He disconnected the transfusions and saline drip, bandaged Orlando up, then escorted them out onto the desert to a waiting limousine.

Between the Sphinx’s paws, Nina stood in the middle of a crowd of soldiers, barking orders and pointing to locations around the site. She glanced over to them once, nodded, then looked away quickly.

“Here,” said the pilot, tossing Orlando’s pack to him, then pushing both of them inside the limo. “This man will take you to the airport, where you’ll have a flight waiting.”

“Going where?” Phoebe asked, her mouth dry, her head spinning.

“New York. Your part in this is done.”

“But my brother? My nephew-?”

“I won’t say it again. You’re going home, where you’ll be watched. If you try to leave the country, we’ll have you detained.” He smirked under his visor. “Or killed.”

“That seems fair.” Orlando leaned on the open car door, trying to be chivalrous and let Phoebe in first. Then he slid in beside her, with his pack on his lap.

On the ride to the airport, as they passed through the perimeter of jeeps and men with guns, Orlando took out his iPad and turned it on. He leaned back, then fell sideways, resting his head against Phoebe’s shoulder. Her breathing was quick, raspy.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “No crying. Not yet. We’re not done.”

“I heard gunshots down there.”

“Hey, we’ll find out how they are. Just a moment. Let me get my strength.”

“You do that,” she said. “I need to see.”

Behind them, the Great Pyramid glowed brightly, dwindling in their window before they turned, and Cairo’s choppy hills, crammed with homes, stores and museums, took its place.

“Okay, but-”

Just then, the iPad beeped. Groaning, Orlando sat up, opened to the screen and blinked at it for a long time before cursing.

“What?” Phoebe said, looking over. Her eyes focused and her brain slowly perceived the image. “What is that?”

Orlando could barely breathe. “It’s the program I’ve been running.”

“Jeez, Orlando. Which one? Your Morpheus Initiative work, or something related to finding the perfect World of Warcraft character, some blend of mage, warrior and thief?”

“The head,” he whispered. “The crown, the program! ”

“I thought we gave up on that after Antarctica.”

“I never give up.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “You know that.”

“Okay, so what was this program?”

“The usual. I had it searching all known images and visuals for a match to the drawings our group had done. You know, the pictures of the head buried in sand-like stuff, crown partially revealed. Unknown size and specs.”

“Yes, I know. The only match was in Antarctica. The fake Montross planted, knowing we’d find it.”

“Not true,” Orlando said. “There were actually two other, earlier matches. Both passed over because they didn’t fit the location. But the head itself was a match.”

“I wasn’t aware of that. Why wasn’t I told?”

“Only spoke to the boss-man about it in private, and he said we’d come back to these, but they weren’t likely to be major hits at the time. Nowhere to spend our energies.”

“So, what were they?”

Orlando clicked on the upper left section of the program’s readout. An image appeared, an artist’s rendition of a giant head, severed at the neck, on a beach, being worked on by artisans. In the distance was a statue astride a circular harbor, pyramids and obelisks along the shore and a sail boat departing under its legs. It held a torch aloft.

“The Colossus of Rhodes,” Orlando said. “Another of our friends, one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Itself a lighthouse, the immense Colossus collapsed in-what else-an earthquake, in 226 BCE. But its remains, so huge and impressive, stayed on the ground for over eight hundred years, a major tourist attraction.”

“What happened to the pieces?” Phoebe asked. “Where’s the head?”

“No one knows for sure. Lots of rumors about Arabs taking the remnants, melting them down or storing them somewhere. At the time, I didn’t think much of this, but I did try to RV the head. But never got anything specific. Thought we should bring it up at the next meeting, but then we got the Antarctica hit.”

“Okay, so that’s a possibility. What’s the other one?”

Orlando smiled and clicked. “This.”

“Ah,” Phoebe said, and whistled. “Lady Liberty.”

“Yep, inspired by the Colossus. Built almost exactly to its specifications in size and possibly posture.”

“Except they changed the gender.”

“Yeah, well you can’t fight progress.” He smiled. “At this point, if Caleb were here, he’d go into all sorts of conspiracy stories about Freemasons and symbols, about the significance of the dedication date, the Masonic service, and hidden purposes behind Liberty’s delivery to the new world of light and reason, yada, yada.”

“Of course,” Phoebe groaned. “And we’d all just nod and hope he got to the point. Which is…?”

Orlando shrugged. “No idea. The head’s still on her shoulders, and doesn’t fit our images, so we passed on this hit. Although, I think it might still be worth a look. Maybe there’s something there.”

“Maybe,” Phoebe urged, leaning in. She clicked on the back button, returning to the first image that had filled the screen. “So what’s this?”

“That,” he said slowly, “is new. Hit Number Three.”

“It’s…” Phoebe said, squinting, “small. Can you enlarge it?”

“Hang on.” He expanded the magnification, and the view increased, the details solidifying. It appeared to be a photograph taken from high above, of a desert with boulders, rocks and mountains, a desolate plain. Except there was something imbedded in the desert floor. Something half in shade, with a mouth, an outline of a crown, and an eye staring back at them.

“I’ve seen this before somewhere. That’s a face?”

Orlando nodded. “If you believe the nutcases out there. The same people who see the Virgin Mary in potato chips and Elvis in some guy’s liver spots.”

“But-”

“Yeah,” said Orlando grimly, now taking the pointer and decreasing magnification. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

“Jeez.”

“Yeah,” Orlando said again. “You see, back in China, waiting for you guys at that mausoleum, I had the idea of expanding my search, looking for matches… elsewhere.”

“You expanded it all right,” Phoebe said, staring along with him at the reddish globe set against the stars.

“It’s-”

“Yeah,” he repeated, one more time, incredulous.

“Mars.”