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

Vigor shifted in his seat, surprised that Josip was so dense. “There is only one more spot to go.”

Josip frowned at him. “How do you know—?”

Then understanding dawned in his eyes. He patted Vigor on the knee. “Your body may be tired, my friend, but not your mind.”

Monk stirred across the way, having eavesdropped on the conversation. “How about you explaining it to those who are tired in both body and mind?”

Vigor smiled with warm affection at him. “The box we found is silver .” He nodded to the chest at Duncan’s side. “But according to the Hungarian bishop’s account, the box at Attila’s tomb was iron .”

Josip sat straighter, thrilled. “Which means the final box, the one holding the greatest treasure of this hunt, will be gold .”

Monk got it. “Like the three original boxes of St. Thomas’s reliquary. Iron, silver, gold.”

Vigor nodded. “We are one step away from the lost tomb of Genghis Khan.”

Duncan patted the box with his palm. “That is, if you can solve the riddle of that boat made of bone.”

Vigor sighed, praying that God would keep him strong enough for this challenge.

If only for a little longer . . .

The pilot reported good news. “We’re back to where we started, folks. But we may need to batten down the hatches for the night. The weather coming is not going to be fit for man or beast.”

Vigor looked out toward the storm on the horizon. It seemed that the black blizzard hadn’t given up its chase and bore down on them with all its fury.

Knowing what was coming, the helicopter dropped quickly toward the rusted bulk of the ship, seeking its shelter. The giant vessel had clearly weathered such gales in the past and would do so again.

Vigor settled back, relieved.

Once we get underground , we should be safe.

16

November 19, 2:44 A.M. KST

Off the coast of South Korea

Seichan stood at the rail of the USS Benfold, a United States guided missile destroyer. She wore a borrowed parka, its fur-edged hood tossed back. She could not stand the confinement below any longer, with its cramped hallways, the press of bodies, the windowless chambers all painted the same drab colors.

She needed air, so she climbed topside.

The night was bitterly cold, the stars hard as diamonds; even the comet looked like a lump of ice dragged across the sky.

The ship cruised south through the territorial waters of South Korea. So far no alarm had been raised by Pyongyang. Likely those in power up north were too embarrassed to admit their failure. Still, it had been a very close call. Gray was with the medics getting properly attended.

She flashed back to firing her pistol, acting on instinct, blind to anything but survival. She had only meant to knock the rider off his bike. Still . . .

I almost killed him.

A deck hatch clanged open behind her. She closed her eyes, not wanting any intrusion. Footsteps approached, and a form stepped to the rail next to her. She smelled jasmine. The scent threatened to cast her deeper into the past if she let it. Even now, an image of a flowering vine in sunlight appeared in her mind’s eye, with purple flowers, the bobble of fat-bellied bees.

She pushed it down.

“Chi,” her mother said, using her old name, a single note from the lips that carried too much weight for that short exhalation of breath.

“I prefer Seichan,” she said, opening her eyes. “I’ve been that far longer than the other.”

Small hands gripped the rail beside hers, not touching hers, yet close enough for Seichan to feel the warmth from them on this cold night. Still, the distance between them remained a vast gulf.

Seichan had imagined this reunion a thousand ways, but none of them as such profound strangers. She had studied her mother’s features during the trip back here. She could touch and point to those that were achingly familiar: the arch of an eyebrow, the curve of her lower lip, the shape of her eyes. But at the same time, it was the face of a stranger. Not because of the purplish scar or the tattoo, but something deeper.

When last she looked upon her mother, she had been a child of nine. She looked upon her now as a woman two decades older. She was not that child any longer. Her mother was not that young woman.

“I must leave soon,” her mother warned.

Seichan took a deep breath, testing how that made her feel. Tears threatened—but only because she felt nothing at those words, and it devastated her.

“I have obligations,” her mother explained. “Men and women who are still in jeopardy and need my help. I cannot abandon them.”

Seichan held back a bitter laugh at the irony of those words.

Her mother must have still sensed it.

“I looked for you,” she said softly after a long pause.

“I know.” Seichan had heard the same from Gray.

“They told me you were dead, yet still I searched until it hurt too much to do so anymore.”

Seichan stared down at her own hands, surprised to find them so white knuckled as they gripped the rail.

“Come with me now,” her mother asked.

Seichan remained silent for too long.

“You can’t, can you?” her mother whispered.

“I also have obligations.”

Another silence stretched, filled with far more import than their words.

“I heard he is leaving again. So you will go with him?”

Seichan didn’t bother answering.

They stood together for a long time, both with so much to say, and so little to talk about. What else could they do? Compare scars, swap tales of horror and bloodshed, of what one did to survive? In the end, they said nothing.

Finally, her mother unclasped her hands and faded back, turning away, leaving only a whisper behind. “Have I lost you forever, my little Chi? Did I never really find you again?”

And then she was gone, leaving behind only the scent of jasmine.

3:14 A.M.

Gray leaned against the conference table, too tired to trust his legs. He and Kowalski had the officers’ wardroom all to themselves, courtesy of the ship’s captain. The crew had brewed coffee and laid out a spread of scrambled eggs and bacon.

It wasn’t every day a couple of U.S. operatives escaped North Korea.

With his wounded shoulder scrubbed, sprayed with a liquid bandage, and wrapped, he felt worlds better. The muddy coffee certainly helped, too.

Kowalski sat in a neighboring chair, his feet propped up on the table, a plate of bacon resting on his stomach. He yawned with a jaw-cracking pop.

The large LCD monitor before Gray finally flickered to life. The feed was being dispatched through high-security channels to this private room. He found himself staring into the communications nest at Sigma command in D.C.

The director faced him, with Kat seated to the side, tapping furiously at a computer console. She had set up this private videoconference call.

Painter nodded to him. “Commander Pierce, how are you holding up?”

“I’ve had better days.”

And worse.

Despite all that had happened, they had succeeded in rescuing Seichan and made it out alive with their skin intact—okay, not entirely intact, but close enough.

“I know you’ve been through hell and back,” Painter said, “but we need you up and running for another mission, if you’re able.”

“In Mongolia,” Gray said.

He had already debriefed with Kat and was relatively up to speed in regard to events surrounding the crashed satellite.

“I need an honest assessment,” Painter said. “Are you and Kowalski fit enough to continue?”