The Devil Colony (Sigma Force 7)
Page 108Painter led the way with a flashlight while a small parade of other people trailed behind him. Chin and Kowalski followed Hank. Behind them came Rafael, assisted by two of Bern’s men and Ashanda, who by force brought Kai along. Everyone else stayed topside.
Jordan agreed to stay on top of the pit to watch Kawtch—though doing so brought an ominous chill as he remembered Nancy Tso and the fate of the dog’s last caretaker.
The remaining armed military men on the surface stayed divided, grouping on opposite sides of the opening.
The tunnel sank steadily deeper, growing ever hotter. Hank touched one of the walls with his palm. It didn’t burn, but the rock was definitely hot, reminding him of the hellfires burning below—both literally and figuratively.
Was this how the world ended?
After another minute, Hank thought he might have to turn back, his lungs on fire. How much deeper must they go? It felt like they were a quarter mile underground, but most likely only half that.
“We’re here,” Painter said at last.
The tunnel squeezed into a final choke point. Here the walls pinched close together, requiring them to sidle through sideways for the last couple of feet.
Painter went first.
Hank followed—then heard Painter gasp loudly as he broke free, sounding both amazed and horrified. Once he was through, Painter stepped rigidly to the side.
Hank pushed after him, stepping out and moving clear for the others. Still, his feet stumbled in shock. He had to reach to the wall behind him to keep himself steady. His other hand rose to cover his mouth.
“Mon Dieu!” Rafael wheezed out.
Kowalski swore.
As the rest of the party entered, the glow of more and more flashlights illuminated the vast chamber, pushing back the darkness.
Hank struggled to keep his attention focused on the poor souls who ended their lives here. Like those they had seen in Utah, they all seemed garbed in Native American attire: feathers, bones, loose skirts, leather moccasins, and breechcloths. Their hair was worn long, often braided and decorated, but Hank witnessed shades of every color, certainly plenty of raven-haired men and women, but also blond, chestnut, even fiery red.
The Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev.
Again dagger blades, mostly steel but several made of bone, littered the floor or were clutched in bony grips.
So much death.
All to keep a secret, to protect a world against a lost alchemy.
Staring up now, Hank understood the potential source of that science. A temple rose before him, built of native slabs of rock mortared together. It climbed six stories high, seeming to stretch toward the ceiling and filling the center of the massive chamber.
He knew what this place was.
Or rather what it had been modeled after.
Even the facade’s dimensions seemed to be correct.
Twenty cubits wide, thirty-five cubits tall.
Right out of the Bible.
But it wasn’t the dimensions that made him certain. It was the temple in its entirety. Stone steps led up to a porch, the entrance framed by two mighty pillars—the famous Boaz and Jachin—only rather than brass, these two columns were made of gold, as was the massive bowl standing before the temple.
The golden chalice rose nine feet tall and twice that wide, resting on the backs of twelve oxen. The original was named the Brazen Sea, or Molten Sea. It was a fitting name for this copy. The bowl sat in the middle of a steaming hot spring that rose from the floor and fed into the basin. Water spilled over its top to return to the pool before spilling over the top again in an endless cycle.
Hank shook his head. “The shape’s perfect.”
Painter looked aghast at the place.
How can you deny the truth now? Hank wondered.
“Is that what I think it is?” Painter asked, clearly recognizing it, too. “Or at least a Pueblo version of it?”
Hank nodded, exultant. “It’s Solomon’s Temple.”
Chapter 40
June 1, 5:50 A.M.
Yellowstone National Park
Major Ashley Ryan didn’t like babysitting.
“Just stay out of our way,” Ryan warned the Ute kid. He pointed to a boulder at the edge of a stand of pines. “Sit there. And make sure that dog doesn’t lift his leg on my pack.”
Jordan scowled, but obeyed.
The National Guard and the Indians in Utah did not get along—or, at least, not as far as this National Guardsman was concerned. Ryan still remembered the ruckus that had gone down before the explosion in the mountains. If the Indians just knew their place like everyone else did, they’d all get along fine.
Ryan stared across the field to where Bern and his mercenaries had staked a claim thirty yards from the hole. The blond giant had three men; so did Ryan. Even odds if you didn’t count the kid and dog.
Bern stared his way, his hands on his hips, eyeballing the competition just as studiously. Then the big Aryan glanced toward the sky. A moment later, Ryan heard it, too.
Another chopper.
The constant bell beat of their rotors had already set his head to pounding, his eyeteeth to aching. A trio of choppers was circling above, ready with blast boxes. The pilots had already placed four insulated crates on the ground, preparing for fast handoffs and quick bunny hops out of the park.
Ryan checked his watch. Twenty minutes. That did not leave a lot of margin for error. As he listened, the sound of a second helicopter joined the first. He stared up as the first appeared, sweeping low over the ridge and diving down.
What the hell? Has something happened?
Then, from the back of the transport helo, heavy lines suddenly came coiling down, followed just as quickly by men. They wore the same black scare-gear as Bern’s mercenaries.
Fuck.
Ryan swung and ducked, moving instinctively. He heard the crack of the pistol at the same time as a round buzzed over his head. Down on one arm, like a linebacker, he stared back at Bern. The blond man held his pistol pointed.
The gun blasted again.
One of Ryan’s men flew off his feet and skidded on his back in the dirt.
He had a hole where his eye used to be.
Ryan bolted for the boulders where he’d sent the boy. His instinct was to protect the civilian. But he also had two men under his watch.
“Get to cover! Now!”