Things were different. That was Turcotte’s impression as Yakov brought the mothership down toward the side of the landing strip, where there was a large open field. There were many lights blazing and activity all over the place.
Helicopters flitted about, getting out of the way of the descending alien ship. A half dozen C-130 cargo planes were lined up off to one side.
As soon as Yakov brought the ship to a halt, just above the ground, the two walked back to the nearest hatch and exited. Turcotte carried Excalibur, wrapped in a cloth. Major Quinn was waiting, flanked by Colonel Mickall and another man wearing a very nice suit.
“Major Turcotte, Mr. Yakov”—Quinn had quickly stepped forward to make the introductions—“this is Deputy Secretary General Kaong, the new director of UNAOC.”
Turcotte almost laughed. UNAOC — United Nations Alien Oversight Committee — had been practically a nonentity ever since it was formed after he and Duncan publicized what had been hidden at Area 51. Kaong had a very serious demeanor as he stiffly held out his hand. Turcotte shook it briefly.
“What can we do for you, Secretary Kaong?”
“We are trying to determine what threat remains,” Kaong said. “We know that Aspasia’s Shadow is still on the loose, as is Artad.”
Turcotte tried to figure out if there was a tone of accusation in Kaong’s voice. “Major Quinn could tell you more about that than me.”
“What happened at Stonehenge?” Kaong asked. “We received only the barest sketch of details from the British. They aren’t quite sure themselves.”
“The Swarm recovered some sort of spaceship there,” Turcotte said. He was looking about, over Kaong’s shoulder, searching for the Space Command troops who should be here.
“And this Swarm’s goal?” Kaong asked. “I assume the same as Artad’s. Get to Mars and take over the transmitter. Call home and ask for reinforcements.” “Most grave,” Kaong said.
Turcotte brought his attention back to the United Nations representative, again not sure of his tone — was he being factitous? “Yeah. Grave. That’s a good word to use.” “How can we help?”
Turcotte wondered where all this help had been while he was on Everest. “There’s not much you can do right now.” He turned to Quinn. “Are the Space Command people here?”
Quinn nodded. “A full team with equipment and TASC suits. Ready to go.” “And status of Artad’s ship? The Swarm’s?” Quinn directed them toward the hangar. “Artad stopped at the derelict mothership for a while. His Talon only just left it about twenty minutes ago. Based on how long it took Aspasia to come here, we estimate around two days for him to reach Mars. The Swarm ship just broke orbit. We don’t have a speed for it yet, so we don’t know who will get to Mars first.” “And Aspasia’s Shadow and his Talon?” Turcotte asked as they entered the hangar. He saw a man standing nearby wearing a black jumpsuit with the Space Command patch on the shoulder.
“We lost track of him somewhere over Texas.” That gave Turcotte pause. “Texas? He’s not in space?” “We haven’t spotted anything else escaping the planet’s gravity.”
“Damn,” Turcotte muttered. He slumped down in a chair. “All right. Talk to me about Tunguska and Tesla. I want to have something with a bit more punch than this”—he held up the sword—“when we go after them.”
The Airlia convoy was well up on the hundred-mile-long ramp that led to and through the four- mile-high escarpment surrounding the Mons Olumpus Aureole. A long plume of red dust trailed behind the convoy. The actual cut in the escarpment, even with the ramp, was two miles deep, a testament to the efficiency and immense capabilities of the mech-machines. A dozen of those machines were scattered about in the midst of whatever task they had been about, their system crashing when the Cydonia guardian went off-line.
The lead vehicle cleared the escarpment and rolled onto the slope of Mons Olympus. The volcano was so large that the angle of ascent was actually relatively gentle, only about five degrees. Far ahead, and near the summit, the arcs of two completed pylons and a third incomplete one were visible. And fifty miles behind the convoy, reaching the beginning of the ramp, was the trail vehicle carrying the core element of the transmitter.
CHAPTER 12: THE PRESENT
“Nikola Tesla.” Quinn held up a black-and-white photograph of a young man with pale skin, dark hair parted in the middle, and sporting a thick mustache. “He was an electrical engineer and scientist who was born in 1856 and died in 1943. He’s known for some very innovative work on electricity and magnetism.” Quinn put the photo down and picked up another old black-and-white image, someone Turcotte recognized. A savage-looking man with scars on both cheeks and intense black eyes. “Tesla met Burton.”
“How do you know that?” Turcotte demanded. Quinn held up a leather-bound manuscript — the lost manuscript of Burton that Professor Mualama had tracked down. “It’s in here.”
Yakov spit. “Another thing Mualama didn’t tell us.”
“And?” Turcotte gripped the arms of his chair, trying to keep his anger toward the archaeologist under control. The man, after all, had been infected by a Swarm tentacle. His actions had not been of his own volition. And he had paid the ultimate price. Turcotte could still see the archaeologist tumbling from the face of Everest in his final act of resistance against the Swarm’s attempt to use him to stop Turcotte from reaching Excalibur.
“I found a scholar who could translate Akkadian,” Quinn continued, “and had her work on the manuscript via fax. Do you want Burton’s words verbatim, or do you want my summary?”
“Summarize,” Turcotte said, checking his watch.
“Burton was being chased by the Watchers, who were afraid his investigations might cause problems and upset the truce. Also, he was being tracked down by the Ones Who Wait and Aspasia’s Shadow.”
“Sounds like he wasn’t making any friends,” Yakov said.
“Because he thought for himself,” Turcotte said. “That’s been a rare commodity throughout history, it appears.”
Quinn continued. “Shortly before his death, Burton ran into Tesla in Paris, acting on a tip he received. It turns out that Tesla was a member of a group that traced its beginning back to Myrddin — Merlin as he is more commonly known.”
“But I thought Merlin had been a rogue Watcher?” Yakov pointed out. “A onetime thing?”
“True, Merlin was a rogue Watcher,” Quinn said. “But it doesn’t look like it was a onetime thing. It appears that Burton was occasionally aided by a clandestine group of rogue Watchers who actually claimed the mantle of being the real Watchers.”
“What?” Turcotte asked irritably. Another thing that wasn’t as it had originally appeared.
“Like the Roman Catholics and the Protestants,” Quinn said, “it appears there was a schism among the ranks of the Watchers precipitated by Merlin’s actions or perhaps even earlier. Burton himself wasn’t really sure about the timing, but he does write that there was a split between those who believed in the original edict as decided at Avalon after the destruction of Atlantis, to remain a neutral group dedicated simply to watching, and a more progressive group, initiated perhaps by Merlin, that dedicated itself to more active measures against the aliens.”
“They haven’t been very helpful,” Yakov muttered.
Quinn shrugged. “How do you know that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Both sides of the Airlia have committed terrible atrocities against the human race over the millennia but we’re still here. Maybe some of that is due to the active Watchers.”