The object, which appeared to be nothing more than a cylinder of metal, about twenty feet long and almost two feet in diameter, lay diagonally across the pit. At first, Molly couldn’t understand why the discovery had warranted the attention of the mysterious secret society, but her father's shocked expression — which for Hobbs was a barely noticeable widening of the eyes — prompted her to take a second look. “What’s so special about it?"
"Do you recognize it?" Christy asked.
"It looks quite a bit like the Iron Pillar of Delhi," Hobbs observed. "A column of almost pure iron dating back to the fourth century. Yet despite nearly sixteen hundred years, it shows no signs of corrosion. It's one of the world’s most interesting metallurgical curiosities. Thought to be one of a kind, until now. You found this here? In London?"
"Right where it sits." Christy gestured to the damp wall. "This tunnel is less than a hundred yards from the Thames. Over time, the river has changed course due to floods and the buildup of sediment. Our current theory is that a ship transporting the column up the river might have foundered on this spot. Then as the sediment covered it over, if effectively moved the shipwreck onto dry land."
"That kind of geological process takes centuries, even millennia."
The Trevayne expert nodded. "It’s an enigma to be sure."
In a display of uncharacteristic excitement, Hobbs climbed down one of the wooden ladders tilted up against the sides of the pit and began scrutinizing the ornate end piece. "The cap is different. The Delhi pillar is capped with an idol of the Chakra. This one is… different."
Indeed the top of the pillar featured a sculpture that looked to Molly’s eyes like a coiled serpent with a spherical object caught in its jaws; a closer look revealed it to be a skull.
"The snake and skull isn’t your traditional Indian motif," Christy supplied. "But we think it may be representative of the goddess Kali."
"Kali," Hobbs echoed. "The devourer."
"Devourer of what?" grunted Hurricane.
"Everything."
"Is that the connection with the Child of Skulls prophecy?" asked Molly.
"Connection? I don’t know that I’d call it a connection; more an interesting coincidence."
"If it ain’t a connection," murmured Hurley, "then we’re wasting our time here."
The Padre seemed chastened by the comment and took a step back from the artifact. "Quite right. Sir Reginald, our purpose is quite urgent. We need to see all the records you have that concern the prophecy."
"I’m afraid it’s not as simple as all that. You see, only a fraction of our archives survived the firebombing of our old headquarters building. The information you seek was destroyed." Hobbs sagged under the weight of this revelation, prompting Christy to hastily augment his statement. "All is not lost, however. Edward Winterbourne, the man who chronicled the original event, is still alive and living in London."
"You must put me in contact with him," pressed Hobbs.
"Ah, well there’s the rub. You see, he long ago severed all ties with the Trevayne Society. He remains an honored figure and we respect his desire for privacy—"
"Privacy be damned! Our situation is grave."
"I understand. But as I was about to say, in addition to respecting the man’s wishes, there is the matter of his safety. Our enemies are targeting anyone who has affiliations with the Society. To approach him now would certainly put him in dire peril."
"The whole word will be in dire peril if the prophecy is fulfilled."
Christy’s shoulder sagged in resignation. "Is it really that bad?"
"An agent of the Child of Skulls has already struck the first blow. He has stolen an artifact of incredible power and I believe he intends to use it as a stepping stone to achieve his ultimate goal of world domination."
When he mentioned the theft of the Staff, something clicked in Molly’s head. Her eyes flashed toward the crater where her father stood and she saw the strange metal column in an entirely new light. "Dad—"
She never got to complete the sentence. At that very instant, the subterranean stillness was shattered by the staccato pops of gunfire.
"Bloody hell," gasped Christie. "They've found us!"
Baylor and the other workmen reacted like soldiers on a battlefield, diving for cover and producing automatic pistols from the pockets of their work clothes, but their unseen attackers already had the upper hand. Two of the diggers were down, writhing in agony on the ground and the rest of the defenders remained pinned down, unable to find a target much less return fire.
Hurley’s reflexes were similarly swift. He swept Molly up under his arm and glissaded down the nearly vertical earthen wall and into the relative safety of the pit, while the unarmed Christy scrambled down one of the nearby ladders. A shower of dirt kicked up by the impact of bullets on the edge of the crater sprayed over them.
"Stay down," Hurricane roared, drawing his twin Browning semi-automatics. He pushed Christy aside and was about to clamber up one of the ladders, when he heard Molly gasp. From the corner of one eye, he saw her frantically pointing toward the place where Hobbs now crouched, hunkered down behind the strange metal column…and then he saw it too.
Beneath the priest’s hands, the dull metal had begun to shimmer like quicksilver. Hobbs himself was unaware of the change until he saw their amazed expression, at which point he recoiled as if stung. The transformation however only intensified.
In a matter of seconds, the shimmering spread up and down the length of the pillar, culminating in a brilliant blue halo of static electricity — like St. Elmo’s Fire — on the serpentine image at its apex. And then, something truly unbelievable began to happen. The coiled metal snake began to move.
CHAPTER 10 — TO THE OUTPOST OF FATE
Dodge had always known he would return to the bottom of the world, but he had never imagined that it would be like this.
In some of his musings, there was a cadre of scientists from every nation of the world, eager to plumb the mysterious depths of the Outpost to find the answers to mankind's oldest questions or perhaps discover cures to dreadful diseases. Sometimes, in his daydreams, the situation was dire, with columns of soldiers lined up behind him, taking up positions to defend the place and all its secrets from a foreign belligerent or a madman bent on world domination. But no matter the circumstances, one part was always the same; he was always surrounded by his friends.
He wasn't alone now, but the three people who had now shared the austere cabin of the plane — his constant companions for the last fifty hours or more — were not the three he had always expected. And friends?
Well, Newcombe maybe, he thought, glancing over at the frizzy-haired physicist, who sat bundled up in his winter weather gear. The scientist would naturally have been among the first to be invited along, though Dodge had always imagined he would only go under protest.
But Newcombe's familiar presence only served to accentuate the fact that the people he cared most for were absent. There was every reason to believe that they were now the captives of an unknown, but no less diabolical, villain. Or worse….
No, he wouldn't entertain that possibility. They were alive and if indeed they were prisoners, he would somehow find a way to save them.
He shifted, trying to work out some of the kinks and cramps that came with long hours of inactivity. Newcombe appeared to be dozing, while the FBI agent was chatting away with the blond journalist. She was obviously used to getting her way with men, but Dodge had rebuffed her efforts to ingratiate herself with him. She was nice enough and unquestionably an attractive woman, but Dodge didn't trust her. She had blackmailed her way into tagging along and it was going to take a lot more than insincere flirtation to win him over.