Matthew Reilly - Temple

Meanwhile, Race was working feverishly with his grappling hook, unspooling its rope. He looked out at the chopper.

‘Get it higher!’ he yelled. ‘Higher! It’s too low!’

Race gauged the distance between him and the chopper.

It was too close to fire the grappling hook from its launcher. He was going to have to throw it.

He unspooled the rope a little more, keeping it loose so that when he did throw it, it wouldn’t get all tangled up.

‘Cochrane!’ he shouted. ‘Can you swing with that busted leg of yours?’

‘What do you think, Einstein?’

‘Then you’re no good to me!’ Race said fiercely. “You’re staying here. Van Lewen! Give me cover!’

Then, as Van Lewen loosed another burst at the chopper, Race quickly leapt out of the foliage with the grappling hook hanging from his hand, and in one fluid motion he threw it, underhanded, out at the Mosquito’s lefthand landing skid.

He knew as soon as he did it that he’d weighted the throw perfectly.

The grappling hook sailed through the air toward the hovering helicopter, reaching the zenith of its arc just as it arrived at the Mosquito’s left landing skid, and then—with a sharp clink-clink—the hook swung over the landing strut and looped itself around it twice, clinging to it.

‘All right, Van Lewen! Let’s go!’

Van Lewen let off a final burst of fire at the chopper before he ran over and joined Race at the edge of the ledge.

‘Grab on,’ Race offered Van Lewen his M-16. The gun was tied to the end of the grappling hook’s rope.

Van Lewen took it and gave Race a look. ‘You know, you’re a lot braver than most people would give you credit for.’

‘Thanks.’

And with that, Race and Van Lewen pushed themselves off the ledge and swung—together—across the wide one-hundred-foot chasm, in a wonderful graceful arc, suspended from the landing skid of the hovering attack helicopter!

‘Motherfucker…’ Buzz Cochrane said as he watched the two of them swing away from him across the bottomless ravine.

Race and Van Lewen swung up onto the path on the other side of the chasm, onto their feet. Once they were up, Race quickly disengaged the grappling hook’s rope from his M-16 and let it go.

The chopper above them didn’t seem to know where they had gone—it just wheeled around wildly above the gorge, firing its guns in frustration, shooting at anything and nothing, while Race and Van Lewen took off down the spiralling path, heading back toward the village.

Heinrich Anistaze held the cloth-enclosed package in his hands, held his breath as he unwrapped it.

‘Yes,’ he said as he revealed the glistening black idol beneath the cloth. “Yes…”

Then abruptly he spun on his heel and began walking toward the eastern logbridge.

‘Demolition team,’ he called in German as he walked, ‘are those chlorine charges set yet?’

‘Three more minutes, Herr Obergruppenfuhrer,’ a man called from over near the battered ATV.

‘Then you’ve taken three minutes too long,’ Anistaze barked. ‘Finish laying them and then meet us at the river’

‘Yes, Obergruppenfuhrer.’

Anistaze keyed his radio. ‘Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer? Do you read me?’ Oberstgruppenfuhrer was the highest of all the SS ranks—-General.

“Yes,’ came the reply.

‘We have it.’

‘Bring it to me.’

‘Yes, Oberstgruppenfuhrer. At once,’ Anistaze said as he strode across the eastern logbridge and plunged into the rainforest.

Race and Van Lewen ran down the spiralling path.

They came to the bottom of the crater, hit the fissure, bolted down its length. Then along the riverside path, guns up. Mist everywhere.

As Race ran down the path, his radio earpiece suddenly burst to life:

‘Cochrane, Lewen, report. Repeat. Cochrane, Reichart, Van Lewen, report—’

It was Nash. Their radios were working again. The Nazis must have turned off their jamming system, or at least taken it out of range.

Van Lewen spoke as he ran. ‘Colonel, this is Van Lewen.

We’ve lost Reichart and Cochrane is wounded. But the Nazis have the idol. Repeat. The Nazis have the idol. I have Professor Race with me now. We’re on our way back to the village.’

“You lost the idol?”

‘Yes.’

“Get it back,” was all Nash said.

Race and Van Lewen came to the western logbridge. They stepped cautiously over it, guns up.

The village was deserted, cloaked in fog. No Nazis in sight. No rapas either.

Immediately in front of them, they saw the dark shape of the ATV turned up on its side. To their left, they could see the shadows of the various buildings of Vilcafor rising out of the fog.

Van Lewen took a step toward the ATV.

‘Colonel… ?’ he said.

He was answered by gunfireG-11 gunfire from the three-man Nazi demolition squad who had been left behind in the village to plant Anistaze’s chlorine charges.

Race dived left, Van Lewen dived right, both of them raising their M16s, but it was no use. They couldn’t see a thing in this mist.

Race clambered back to his feet just as he saw a Nazi commando burst around the side of the ATV, his G-11 raised and ready.

Then suddenly—bam!—a loud, single gunshot rang out from somewhere behind Race and the Nazi’s head just snapped backwards in a spray of blood and all Race could do was stare in stunned awe as his assailant fell to the ground, dead.

‘What the..’ he turned in the direction of the gunshot.

Suddenly a rapa burst out of the fog right in front of him, bared its teeth and leapt at his throat.

Bam!

The rapa jolted sideways in mid-flight as it was hit in the side of the head by another speeding bullet—killed instantly. The big animal’s carcass slid to a halt inches away from Race’s feet.

What the hell was going on!

‘Professor!’ Doogie’s voice cut through the mist. “Over here! Come on! I’ve got you covered!’

Squinting through the fog, Race caught a glimpse of the roof of the citadel, and there—perched on top of it with a sniper rifle pressed against his shoulder—he saw the silhouette of Doogie Kennedy.

From his position on the roof of the great stone fortress, Doogie had a great view of the village.

Through the thermal sights of his M-82AIA sniper rifle, he could see everyone in the town as if it were daytime.

Each figure appeared on his scope as a multicoloured blob—from the Each figure appeared on his scope as a multicoloured blob—from the vaguely human-shaped blobs of Race, Van Lewen and the two remaining members of the German demolition team, to the trapezoidal but heatless shape of the ATV; to the ominous, four-legged shapes of the cats.

The cats.

With the disappearance of the Nazi troops and their weaponry, the cats were now free to move throughout the village again.

They were back. And they were looking for blood.

Race spun where he stood, saw Van Lewen standing over by the upturned ATV.

“Professor, get out of here!’ the Green Beret sergeant yelled.

‘Doogie’ll cover you! I’ve got to get this thing upright again!’

Race didn’t have to be told twice. He immediately hurried off through the village, surrounded by fog. As soon as he did so, however, he heard quick muddy footsteps splashing through the greyness behind him.

Getting closer, gaining on him.

And then suddenly—bamsmacksplat.

It was the sound of another of Doogie’s gunshots—barn— followed by the sound of the bullet smacking into one of the Nazis—smack—followed by the sound of the Nazi hitting the ground—splat.

Another rapa slid out in front of him, prepared to pounce—bam!—its head just exploded, nailed by Doogie.

The rapa’s body began to convulse. Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!