James Rollins - The Eye of God - A Sigma Force Novel

Luckily Monk and Rachel were there to pull him back and shield his body as a shower of crystal shards and larger chunks rained down.

“Take care, Uncle,” Rachel warned, helping him straighten and brushing sparkling dust from his shoulders.

“Look here,” Monk said, pointing to the flared base of the broken column.

Vigor turned, bringing up his flashlight. He shone its brightness into the core of the translucent pillar. Something buried there reflected his light even brighter.

“Over here!” he called to the group.

Others gathered and added their own beams, helping to reveal what was preserved in the salt.

Josip dropped to one knee. “It appears to be a pedestal of stone, holding up a box of some sort.”

His friend stared up at him, wonder shining in his face.

“Like the Hungarian bishop described in Attila’s tomb!” Vigor exclaimed. “This must be it.”

Josip stood. “We must break it free of the salt!”

Arslan appeared, bringing up a small satchel of tools. Using hammers, chisels, and brushes, Josip worked with Arslan to chip away at the thick base of the column.

As it was slowly revealed, the box proved to be large, a foot or so tall and twice as long.

Josip swept crystals off its black surface. The chisel had nicked it in a few places. Vigor’s friend used a fingernail to dig more vigorously at one of the scratches. “It looks to be silver under the tarnish.”

Vigor leaned closer as Arslan freed the lower half of the chest. “I think you’re right. And it’s hinged at the back here.”

In short order, the remainder of the box was broken free of the crust. It shifted on its pedestal with a final strike of a hammer.

Arslan stepped back, his work done.

Vigor waved to Josip. “You open it. You’ve earned the right.”

His friend gripped his arm in gratitude, speechless with anticipation, his fingers shaking slightly on Vigor’s arm.

With both hands, Josip lifted the lid and cracked it open with a salty grate of its hinges. As he raised it, the front panel fell open, apparently hinged on its bottom edge.

Rachel stepped away, covering her mouth. “My God . . .”

11:02 P.M.

As Vigor’s niece moved back, Duncan had a clear view of what the box held.

It looked like a miniature sculpture of a boat, with a prominent keel that swooped into a knobbed bowsprit at the front, its sides made of artfully curved planks. A pair of masts supported square sails, both slightly ribbed like a closed set of blinds.

“Looks like a Song dynasty junk,” Vigor said. “During the Middle Ages such ships plied the seas and rivers of China.”

Rachel shook her head. “But this one is constructed out of rib bones and vertebrae. The sails are made of dried human skin.”

Duncan stepped closer and saw she was right. The curved planks of the boat’s side were ribs . The knob of the bowsprit was a spinal vertebra . He would take her word that the sails were made of human skin.

“More of Genghis,” Monk said.

“Can we be sure?” Rachel asked.

“I can send a sample to the same genetics lab in Rome,” Vigor offered. “We could have confirmation in a day or so.”

Jada nudged Duncan and stated, “Or we find out right now.”

All eyes turned to him.

He understood. “She’s right.” He lifted his hands and wiggled his fingers. “If this tissue is from the same body, I’ll know.”

The others cleared out of his way. Stepping forward, he reached out and moved his fingertips to the curved sides of the boat. Immediately he registered the same pressure, the same unique energy field as in the earlier relics. He swore now he could almost sense the color of the field. It was a term people like him used to describe the minute variations of electrical fields that defied adequate description.

Like trying to describe blue to a blind person.

Only, in this case, if he had to pick a color for this field, it would be black .

He stepped away and shook the tingle from his fingertips, shivering all over for a breath.

“Definitely the same,” he concluded.

Before anyone could comment, a piercing screech made them all jump. Sanjar’s falcon flew effortlessly through the tunnel and swept high into the room. Sanjar lifted his arm and the bird dove to a fluttering landing, panting through its open beak.

“Storm must be here,” Sanjar said, brushing dust from the falcon’s feathers. “We should be going.”

Another squawk erupted. This time it was from the team’s radio. Monk spoke with the pilot and got confirmation.

“He says we must get going now.” Monk pointed Duncan toward the box. “Close that up and let’s get moving.”

With Josip’s and Vigor’s help, Duncan secured the tarnished chest and hauled it up. It was damned heavy. If it was indeed silver, it was likely worth a small fortune.

Monk assisted him in getting the chest through the tunnel. Once back outside, Duncan understood the falcon’s sudden desire to rejoin its master. The starry night of earlier was gone. Black clouds roiled overhead. Sand blasted against the cliff. To the west, conditions looked even worse.

The group hurried across the flatlands, following their crushed path back. They all shuttled sideways, putting their backs to the wind. Visibility was crap. Duncan carried the box under one arm and had a hold of Jada’s hand in the other. Ahead of him, Monk and Rachel helped Vigor, while Sanjar and Arslan supported Josip.

Finally they circled to the far side of the hill, out of direct assault by the storm. The pilot spotted them. He hopped out, opened the side door to the helicopter, and waved them to hurry.

Not that any of them needed the encouragement.

As a group, they ran for the shelter of the chopper’s cabin and clambered inside. Even before they had strapped in, the pilot had the bird lifting off.

Once the wheels were off the ground, the helicopter swung around and flew low across the salt flats, keeping to the shelter of the tall hill for as long as possible, putting as much distance as possible between them and the storm.

Everyone found seats, and harnesses clicked into place.

Finally, the helicopter shot higher, buffeted by the storm’s leading edge, and fled under full power. The bouncing and rattling jarred teeth and challenged the strength of their seat belts.

For a few more long minutes, no one spoke, and hardly anyone breathed.

Then the flight of the helicopter evened out as it escaped the teeth of the storm.

“Should be smooth sailing from here,” the pilot said, though his voice had a shaky edge that suggested their escape was closer than Duncan cared to think about.

They rushed through the night, the stars shining overhead again.

Duncan finally let out a long shuddering breath. “Well, that was fun.”

Jada looked at him aghast.

11:33 P.M.

As they flew back toward their base of operations, Vigor studied the tarnished silver box. It rested on the seat next to Duncan, who kept a palm atop it.

Vigor pictured what it held, but he wasn’t the only one wondering.

“There must be a clue contained within that boat,” Josip said. “Some indication where we must go next.”

Vigor pictured the eye sewn shut on the cover of the book—and the secrets it had hidden. “You are probably right. Once at your library, we’ll see what we can discover.”

Josip must have noted the lack of enthusiasm in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Just tired,” he lied.

“I wonder how many more caches of Genghis’s relics are out there,” Josip said. “Into how many pieces had the great khan been divvied?”