The mothership was a black mass against a dark, overcast night sky as it descended onto the old airstrip. The Delta Force commandos stared in awe as it came to a hover, the bottom of it just a few feet above the pitted concrete. A cargo door near the front slid open and a metal gangway extended down to the ground. A green glow highlighted the opening and silhouetted two men as they exited the craft. One was huge, towering over his partner, but the smaller man walked with an air of confidence, despite shoulders stooped in exhaustion. It was the same silent confidence all the Delta men guarding the location had.
Major Quinn felt a wave of relief, recognizing Yakov and Turcotte. The relief turned to concern as the two came into the circle of light surrounding the hangar. Both men looked haggard, Turcotte particularly so. There were blisters on his face from the cold, his eyes were bloodshot, and he had gray stubble across his chin. He was absently rubbing the back of his head.
“I think we’ve found Duncan,” Quinn led with. Turcotte didn’t react as the major had expected. No smile, no lifting of the weariness. “Where?” “Stonehenge.”
Turcotte didn’t stop walking, heading past Quinn, Yakov at his shoulder, and into the hangar. Turcotte slumped into a folding chair and Yakov did the same. A soldier came over with a steaming cup of coffee, which Turcotte gratefully accepted. His hands cradled the warm cup and he leaned over, his nose just above it, breathing in deeply.
“Stonehenge? England?” Turcotte finally looked up. “How do you know?”
Quinn knelt in front of Turcotte and spoke softly and slowly. “A craft was tracked from the Gulf of Mexico to Stonehenge. It was too fast to be a jet. Strange thermal signature. They thought it was a bouncer, but all are accounted for. On top of all of that, we got a call from an Israeli sniper who said Sherev took the Ark of the Covenant to an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. And something, some sort of pod, took off from underneath the rig and flew away to the northeast not long ago. Now whatever took off there is at Stonehenge.”
Turcotte had closed his eyes halfway through Quinn’s explanation. “Sherev is dead then?” “I don’t know—” Quinn began, but Turcotte held up a hand, halting him.
“Why Stonehenge?” “We don’t know.”
Turcotte slowly turned half-lidded eyes toward Yakov. One eyebrow lifted very slightly. The Russian was leaning back in his seat, long legs sticking out.
“Does anyone have some vodka?” Yakov asked. When there was no answer he let out a deep sigh and got to his feet. “You Americans are never properly equipped. I assume we must go to England.”
Turcotte also stood. “Call the Brits,” he said to Quinn as he headed for the hangar door. “Get someone there. SAS if they can.”
“Yes, sir.”
Turcotte paused. “What about Tesla and Tunguska?”
“I’ve got quite a bit of information,” Quinn said. “I also have some more info on the way here.” “Did Tesla shoot down a Swarm ship?”
“Yes. He invented—” Quinn began, but Turcotte held up a hand.
“One thing at a time. We’re going to England to get Duncan. Then we’ll be back. Have the Space Command guys here and ready to go when we return. And whatever Tesla invented — find someone who can duplicate it.”
Martaugh’s tongue nervously snaked over his lips as he considered the scene in front of him. The black sphere hadn’t moved and the ramp the man had obviously come out of was still down. There was no sign of the door the man had gone through in the standing stone. Martaugh had called it in, been acknowledged, then put the mike back and sat paralyzed for several minutes of indecision.
Martaugh slowly opened the door and went to the Land Rover’s rear door. He lifted it open and retrieved an old Sterling submachine gun that had been issued to him during the recent turmoil. He grabbed a flak vest, put it on, then made sure he had a round in the chamber of the sub. He made his way forward, the stock of the Sterling tight against his shoulder. His eyes shifted between the ramp and the standing stone the man had entered.
He turned toward the ramp.
Colonel Spearson, British Special Air Service (SAS) was heading toward Stonehenge within ten seconds of receiving the alert from Quinn in America. He’d been with Turcotte in Ethiopia when they’d found the cavern with the ruby stone in it. He knew Turcotte was a solid soldier. A man you wanted by your side.
They’d already been in the air as part of a training mission south of Hereford, where the Twenty-first Regiment, which Spearson commanded, was headquartered. They were now heading southeast at the helicopter’s maximum speed.
Spearson considered the message and the destination. Stonehenge. Perhaps the heart of ancient England. Predating all the others — the Tower, the kings, the queens, all of them.
From before the time of Arthur even, who it now appears was of alien origin in some manner. Now something was there.
Something unknown, tracked across the Atlantic. Most likely alien in origin. It bothered him greatly that the aliens seemed to have corrupted every legend and myth, even something as noble as Arthurian legend. And now they were at Stonehenge.
“Faster,” Spearson ordered the pilot. In the rear of the Westland Lynx helicopter sat a dozen Special Air Service troopers. The elite of England’s soldiers. They had weapons in their hands and steely looks in their eyes. They were all sick of it. Aliens. Servants of aliens. Humans being manipulated, infected, changed. They’d watched the reports of Taiwan being devastated, Seoul being assaulted first by North Korean chemical agents, then American nuclear bombs, and somehow they knew, they just knew that while humans had always fought among themselves, it was the aliens behind things. Acting from the darkness, from the shadows. And they were all sick of it.
Turcotte was in the pilot’s seat of the mothership racing across the Atlantic. How fast neither he nor Yakov knew, but the ocean far below was going by at a dizzying speed. Excalibur was leaning against the control console nearby.
“My friend,” Yakov said. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?” “No.”
“Me neither.” Yakov placed a large hand on Turcotte’s shoulder. “Do not let what Aspasia’s Shadow said cause you to doubt yourself.”
Turcotte didn’t respond, staring at the display screens.
Yakov didn’t remove his hand. “And”—he drew the word out, sure he had Turcotte’s attention—“as far as Ms. Duncan goes, you must remember that no matter what her past, she is different now even from the person you knew very briefly the last few months.”
Turcotte nodded, very slightly. “I know.”
“We sometimes do things when we are in stressful times,” Yakov continued, “that in retrospect—” Turcotte interrupted the Russian. “I know I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“Neither was I when I got involved with Katyenka,” Yakov said, referring to the woman who had betrayed them in Moscow.
Normally Turcotte would have bridled at the comparison, but too much had happened in the past few days for him to argue anything. “I was a lumberjack.”
Yakov removed his hand and sat down. “What?”
“I was a”—Turcotte hesitated—“a man who worked in the forest, cutting down trees.” “Ah, yes.” Yakov waited.
“It always struck me as very strange what I did. Cutting down living things. Trees. Beautiful big trees. That had been there for much longer than I would be on Earth. The other guys didn’t think like that — I don’t know why I did. But then I would reconcile it with the thought that the wood would be turned into valuable things. A kid’s bed, maybe.” Turcotte gave a thin smile. “Bull, I know. But hey, I had to deal with it somehow. So I dealt with it.”