Matthew Reilly: Temple

“Take a look,’ Nash said. ‘I’ll tell you more when we get on the plane.’

The motorcade sped through the streets of New York.

It was mid-morning, but the eight-car procession just raced through the soaking city streets, whipping through intersection after intersection, getting green lights all the way out of the city.

They must have set the traffic lights like they did for the President when he visited New York, Race thought.

But this was no presidential procession. The looks on the faces of the people on the sidewalk said it all.

This was a different kind of motorcade.

No limousines. No flapping flags. Just two black heavily-armoured Humvees hovering in the middle of a line of drab olive cars, slicing their way through the pouring rain.

With his bodyguard seated beside him and his earpiece and throat mike now in place, Race stared out the window of the speeding Humvee.

Not many people could claim to have experienced a clear passage out of New York City in the middle of the mid-morning rush, he thought. It was a strange experience; otherworldly. He began to wonder just how important this mission was.

He opened the folder that Nash had given him. The first thing he saw was a list of names.

CUZCO INVESTIGATION TEAM

CIVILIAN MEMBERS

1 NASH, Francis K—DARPA, Project leader, nuclear physicist

2 COPELAND, Troy B—DARPA, nuclear physicist

3 O’CONNOR, Lauren MnDARPA, theoretical physicist

4 CHAMBERS, Walter J—Stanford, anthropologist

5 LOPEZ, Gabriela S—Princeton, archaeologist

6 RACE, William HnNYU, linguist

ARMED FORCES MEMBERS

1 SCOTT, Dwayne T—United States Army (GB), Captain

2 VAN LEWEN, Leonardo M—United States Army (GB), Sergeant

3 COCHRANE, Jacob R—United States Army (GB), Corporal

4 REICHART, George P—United States Army (GB), Corporal

5 WILSON, Charles T—United States Army (GB), Corporal

6 KENNEDY, Douglas K—United States Army (GB), Corporal

He turned the page and saw a photocopy of a newspaper. The headline was in French: MASSACRES DES MOINES DU HAUL DELA MONTAGNE. Translated. ‘Monks massacred in mountaintop monastery. He read the article. It was dated 3 January 1999—yesterday-it was about a group of Jesuit monks who had been slaughtered inside their monastery high up in the Pyrenees.

French authorities believed it to be the work of Islamic militants protesting against French interference in Algeria.

Eighteen monks in all had been killed, all of them at close quarters in the same manner as in previous slayings.

Race turned to the next item in the folder. It was another newspaper clipping, this one from the Los Angeles Times. It was dated late last year and the headline

FEDERAL OFFICIALS FOUND MURDERED IN ROCKIES.

It said that two members of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service had been found murdered in the mountains north of Montana. Both officials had been skinned. The FBI been called in. They suspected that it was the work of of the local militia groups who seemed to have a natural enmity toward any sort of Federal agency. It was thought that two Wildlife officials had stumbled upon some militiamen hunting illegal game for heir pelts. Instead of skinning the game the militiamen had skinned the rangers. Race winced, turned the page. The next sheet in the folder was a photocopy of an article from a university journal of some kind. The article was in German and it was written by a scientist named Albert L. Mueller. It was dated November 1998. Race scanned the article, rapidly translating the German in his head. It was something about a meteor crater that had been found in the jungles of Peru.

Underneath the article on the meteor crater was a police pathologist’s report, also written in German. In the box marked ‘NAME OF DECEASED’ were the words ‘ALBERT LUDWIG MUELLER’.

Beneath the pathologist’s report were some more sheets of paper, all covered with various red stamps Top SECRET; EYES ONLY; U.S. ARMY PERSONNEL EYES ONLY. Race flicked through them. Mostly, the sheets were filled with complex mathematical equations which meant nothing to him. Next, he saw a handful of memos, nearly all of them addressed to people he’d never heard of. On one of the memos, however, he saw his own name. It read:

3 JAN 1999 22:01 US ARMY INTERNAL NET 617 5544 8821105 NO.139 From: Nash, Frank To: All Cuzco Team Members Subject: SUPERNOVA MISSION Contact to be made with Race ASAP. Participation crucial to success of mission. Expect package to arrive tomorrow 4 January at Newark at 0945. All members to have equipment stowed on the transport by 0900.

The motorcade arrived at Newark airport. The long line of cars raced through a gate in the cyclone fence and quickly made its way to a private airstrip.

An enormous camouflaged cargo plane stood on the tarmac waiting for them. At the rear of the plane, a cargo ramp was lowered so that it touched the ground. As the motorcade pulled to a stop alongside the massive aircraft, Race saw a large Army truck being driven up the ramp into the rear of the plane.

Led by Sergeant Van Lewen, he stepped out of the Humvee, into the rain. No sooner had he emerged from the big black vehicle, however, that he heard a monstrous roar from somewhere high above him.

An old F-15C Eagle—painted in green and brown camouflage colours and with the word ‘ARMY’ emblazoned on its tail—came roaring in overhead and screeched to a landing on the wet tarmac in front of them.

As Race watched the fighter plane wheel around on the and taxi back in his direction, he felt Frank Nash grab him gently by the arm.

‘Come on,’ Nash said, leading him toward the big cargo ‘Everyone else is already on board.’

As they approached the cargo plane, Race saw a woman appear in a doorway on its side. He recognised her instantly.

‘Hey, Will,’ Lauren O’Connor said.

‘Hello, Lauren.’

Lauren O’Connor was in her early thirties, but she didn’t look a day older than twenty-five. She’d cut her hair, Race saw. Back at USE, it had been long, wavy and brown. Now it was short, straight and auburn.

Very late nineties.

Her big brown eyes were still the same, though, as was her fresh clear skin. And standing there in the doorway to the big cargo plane—leaning casually against the frame with her arms folded and her hips cocked, dressed in heavy-duty khaki hiking gear—she looked the way she had always looked. Tall and sexy, lithe and athletic.

‘It’s been a long time,’ she said, smiling.

‘Yes, it has,’ Race said.

‘So. William Race. Expert linguist. Consultant to the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. You still play ball, Will?’

‘Just socially,’ Race said. Back in college, he’d lettered in football.

He’d been the smallest guy on the team, but also the fastest. He’d lettered in track too.

‘How about you?’ he said, noticing for the first time the ring on her left hand. He wondered who she’d married.

‘Well, for one thing,’ she said, her eyes lighting up, ‘I’m very excited about this mission. It’s not every day you get to go on a treasure hunt.’

“Is that what this is?’

Before Lauren could answer, a loud whining sound made both of them turn.

The F-15 had pulled to a halt about fifty yards from the cargo plane and no sooner was its canopy open than the pilot was leaping down onto the wet tarmac beneath it and running toward them, hunched over in the drenching rain. He carried a briefcase in his hand.

The pilot came up to Nash, handed him the briefcase.

‘Doctor Nash,’ he said. ‘The manuscript.’

Nash took the briefcase and strode over to where Lauren and Race were standing.