Matthew Reilly - Temple

Truth be told, the only thing that had stopped the G-11 was money. In late 1989, political considerations forced the German government to rescind its deal with Heckler & Koch to use the G-11 in the Bundeswehr.

As a result, only four hundred G-11s were ever made.

Strangely, however, in an audit of the company during its takeover by Britain’s Royal Ordnance only ten of that original batch were accounted for.

The other three hundred and ninety guns had disappeared.

I think we just found them, Race thought as he watched the rapas take flight in the face of the barrage of supermachine-gun fire coming at the guns.

‘It’s the Stormtroopers,’ Schroeder said from beside him.

The hailstorm of gunfire outside continued.

Two more cats fell, squealing and shrieking, as a couple of the Stormtroopers pummelled the village with their devastating rain of supermachine-gun fire.

The remainder of the cats took refuge in the rainforest surrounding the town, and soon the main street was filled only with the heavily-armed Stormtroopers.

‘How the hell did they get here without us seeing them on the SAT-SN?’ Nash demanded.

“And why aren’t the cats attacking them?’ Race said.

Up until now, the cats had been merciless in their assaults, but for some reason they had neither sensed nor attacked these new soldiers.

It was then that the distinct smell of ammonia wafted in through the windows of the ATV. The smell of urine. Monkey urine. The Nazis had read the manuscript, too.

Suddenly Van Lewen’s voice came in over their speakers.

‘We’re coming to the rope bridge now.’

Race and Nash spun together to face the monitor that displayed the views of the three soldiers up in the crater.

On the monitor they saw Van Lewen’s point of view as he bounced across the rope bridge that led to the temple.

‘Cochrane! Van Lewen! Hurry!” Nash said into his radio.

‘We’ve got hostil—’

Just then a shrill, ear-piercing shriek warbled out from the ATV’s speakers and Nash’s radio went dead.

‘They’ve engaged electronic countermeasures,’ Schroeder said.

“What?’ Race said.

‘They’re jamming us,’ Nash said.

‘What do we do?’ Renee asked.

Nash said, ‘We’ve got to tell Van Lewen, Reichart and Cochrane that they can’t come back down here. They’ve got to get that idol and get it as far away from here as possible.

Then, somehow, they have to get in touch with the air support team and get the choppers to pick them up from somewhere in the mountains.’

‘But how are you going to do that if they’re jamming our radios?’ Race said.

‘One of us is going to have to go up to that temple and tell them,’ Nash said.

A short silence followed.

Then Schroeder said, “I’ll go.”

Good idea, Race thought. After the Green Berets, Schroeder was easily the most ‘soldierly’ of the group.

‘No,’ Nash said decisively. ‘You can handle a gun. We need you down here. You also know these Nazi guys better than any of us.’

That left Nash, Renee… or Race.

Oh, man, Race thought.

And so he said, ‘I’ll do it.’

‘But… ?’ Schroeder began.

‘I was the fastest guy in the football team back in college,’

Race said. ‘I can make it.’

‘But what about the rapas?’ Renee said.

“I can make it.”

‘All right, then, Race is elected,’ Nash said, heading for the pop-up hatch in the rear of the ATV.

‘Here, take this,’ he said, handing Race an M-16 complete w.ith all the extras. ‘Might stop you becoming cat food. Now go. Go!’

Race took a step toward the hatch, inhaled a slow, deep breath. He took a final look at Nash, Schroeder and Renee.

Then he let out the breath he was holding and pushed up through the hatch—

—and entered another world.

Supermachine-gun fire echoed out all around him, smacked into the leaves nearby, splintered their trunks. It seemed so much louder out here, so much more real. So much more lethal.

Race’s heart thumped loudly inside his head.

What the hell am I doing out here with this gun in my hand?

You’re trying to be a hero, that’s what you’re doing, you stupid schmuck!

He took another breath.

All right…

Race leapt off the back of the ATV, landed on the western logbridge and took off down the riverside path beyond it.

He was surrounded by impenetrable grey fog. It lined the path around him. Gnarled tree branches jutted out through it like daggers.

The M-16 felt heavy in his hands and he held it awkwardly across his chest as he ran, kicking up water with every step.

Then, without warning, a rapa slid out from the mist to his right and rose to its full height in front of him and— Blam!

The rapa’s head exploded and the giant cat dropped like a stone, began flopping wildly in the mud.

Race didn’t miss a beat, he just hurdled the fallen cat.

Once he was over it, he turned to see Schroeder—with an M-16 pressed against his shoulder—sticking out from the hatch at the back of the ATV.

Race ran.

A minute later, the fissure in the mountainside emerged from the fog.

Just as he caught sight of it, he heard voices behind him, shouting in German.

“Achtung!”

“Schnell! Schnell!”

Then suddenly he heard Nash’s voice shouting from somewhere in the mist behind him: “Race, hurry! They’re behind you! They’re heading for the temple!”

Race bolted into the fissure.

Its damp stone walls flashed past him on either side as he raced down its length.

Then all of a sudden he burst out into the massive canyon that housed the skyscraper-like rock tower. The fog was thick here too. The base of the rock tower was cloaked in a spooky grey mist.

Race didn’t care. He saw the spiralling path to his left, jumped up onto it, took off up its steep curving length.

Back in the village, Renee Becker stared fearfully out through the narrow windows of the ATV.

About thirty Nazi troops were massing in the village now. They were dressed in state-of-the-art combat attire ceramic body armour, lightweight kevlar tactical helmets and, of course, black ski masks—and they moved with purpose, like a well-trained, well-prepared raiding party.

Renee saw one of the Nazis step out into the middle of the main street and remove his helmet. The man then peeled off his black ski mask and surveyed the area around him.

Renee’s eyes went wide.

Although she had seen his picture a thousand times before on all manner of ‘MOST WANTED’ posters, seeing him here, now, in the flesh, made her skin crawl.

She immediately recognised the forward-brushed hair and the narrow slitlike eyes. And the left hand that was possessed of only four fingers.

She was looking at Heinrich Anistaze.

Without saying a word, Anistaze made a ‘V’ with his fingers and pointed in the direction of the ATV.

Already a dozen of his G-11-armed men had dashed past the all-terrain vehicle, heading up the riverside path toward the fissure and the temple.

Now six more hustled over to the ATV, while the remaining twelve took up defensive positions around the perimeter of the village.

Two men, however, stood off to one side, guarding the Nazis’ radio-jamming device.

It was a small backpack-sized unit-called a pulse generator that corrupted enemy radio signals by emitting a controlled electromagnetic pulse, or EMP.

It was a rather unique device. Ordinarily, an electromagnetic pulse will affect anything with a CPU in it—computers, televisions, communications systems. Such a pulse is called an ‘uncontrolled’ EMP. By controlling the frequency of their pulse, however, and by ensuring that their own radios were set on frequencies above it, the Nazis were able to jam their enemies’ radio systems while still maintaining their own communications.