02 The Secret on Ararat (24 page)

As his thoughts began to disconnect, he wondered if Talon would teach him the move. It would probably take a lot of practice. But Hodson enjoyed that. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He tried to picture how
Talon had done it.
I guess you pull the right arm out of the punch at the same time as—

He slumped forward onto his knees, then toppled sideways. He was dead before he hit the floor.

Talon turned and walked over to the wooden chest. He picked up Tubal-cain’s sword, swinging it slowly from side to side as he approached the corpse.

“Now,” he said, with a dark smile. “Let’s see if this little beauty is as sharp as they say.”

FORTY-THREE

ISIS HAD TWO OF THE six tents packed away when the wind began to pick up. She zipped up her jacket and tightened the strings on her hood to help keep in her body heat. Strong gusts blew powdered snow in her face.

She knew that she would not be able to take down the other four tents without having them blown off the mountain—and maybe her with them. She decided to consolidate the equipment and supplies into two of the tents. In just a couple of minutes the wind had become so strong that she had to stop hauling and simply climb into one of the supply tents for safety.

She moved the equipment and supplies around the edges and cleared out a place in the center of the tent for her polar bag. She climbed in to wait out the wind.

Her mind began to drift to the first time she met Murphy, in the emergency ward at Preston General. He
was sitting in a chair next to Laura’s bed as she lay dying. He had looked so tired and grief-stricken. Isis had come with a piece of Moses’ Brazen Serpent—offering the hope that this mysterious artifact had healing powers.

But Murphy had rejected it. It would be a sin, he said. He put his faith in God and God alone. Not relics or magical talismans.

And Laura had died.

At the time Isis had not understood how Murphy had just let it happen. If you really loved someone, wouldn’t you try anything? Why did it matter if it was a sin? He’d seemed heartless—putting his faith before the life of his wife.

But here on the mountain, alone in her tent and surrounded by a raging blizzard, she was beginning to understand. She felt so isolated and helpless, so powerless in the face of the elements, so utterly dependent on forces beyond her control, that it was easy to believe her fate was no longer in her own hands. She felt herself give something up—the pretense that she could control things, that she was in charge—and at the same time she felt herself inviting something else in.

She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but in the cold and the dark, it was a comforting presence.

She found herself thinking about what they had discovered. Her mind was reeling from everything they’d found on the ark. And she still couldn’t quite believe that she had actually been standing where Noah had stood, on the very same planks of wood. But the excitement was slowly being replaced by different thoughts and deeper feelings. She knew that for Murphy, the discovery of the ark was more than just a spectacular archaeological
find. It was proof that the Bible was literally true. And not just the story of Noah and the ark.

It was proof that one judgment had come.

And that another was surely coming soon.

If it came now
, she wondered,
would I be one of the ones on the ark? Or would I be one of the foolish ones who stayed outside, jeering and laughing until the floodwaters swept them away into oblivion?

As
a wave of exhaustion overcame her, her last thoughts were a prayer.
If the judgment comes now, God, please look kindly on Murphy. If I can make a difference by praying about it, please spare him…
.

Isis didn’t know how long she had been asleep. It was still dark in the tent. The wind had stopped blowing and it was eerily silent. She reached around until she found her rucksack and opened it. She moved her hand through the various items until she found her headlamp and turned it on. She glanced at her watch, but the hands weren’t moving.
The battery must have died
.

She unzipped the tent and a pile of snow fell in on her. About six inches of fresh snow lay on the ground, and it looked like more would be coming. She realized that no one would be coming for her. Not in the middle of a snowstorm.

Isis began to think back to the mountain-climbing training she received on Mount Rainier.
I must eat and drink. I have got to keep up my strength, stay hydrated
.

She began to rummage through the supplies until she found a small cooking stove and a bottle of propane. It didn’t seem that there was much in the bottle. She
scooped up some snow from outside before zipping the tent closed again. Then she began the slow process of melting snow for drinking water and some soup.

After her meal, Isis tried to busy herself by checking the equipment and preparing to spend a cold night on the mountain. She tried not to think about how scared she was. She didn’t want to imagine what would happen if no one came for her. Could she possibly get down the mountain by herself? She really hadn’t paid attention to how they got to Camp 2. She had just followed the other members of the team. What would happen if she had to cross a crevasse by herself or fell through a cornice?

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed. The light on the headlamp was beginning to fade. Her battery was going. Quickly, she laid out important items where she could find them.

And then it went dark.

FORTY-FOUR

AS MURPHY ZIGZAGGED his way up to the ark, he was thinking about Noah and how he must have begged people to come aboard and escape God’s judgment. And yet, only eight people were saved in the Flood.

He was imagining the awesome sense of responsibility, and Noah’s sadness at his failure to convince more people of the truth of his message. And he began to feel some of the same weight of responsibility himself.
When the next judgment comes, we have to make sure more people heed God’s warnings
, he thought to himself.

Murphy climbed up the snowbank next to the ark and stepped onto the roof. He bent down and examined the wood, amazed at the preservative qualities of the pitch.

He crawled through one of the window openings to the walkway, put on his headlamp, and proceeded down
the ramp to the middle floor. The ark was strangely silent.

“Colonel Hodson! Professor!” he called out. But there was no reply. Just a ghostly echo.

He continued down the ramps until he came to the bottom floor. He yelled several more times. Where could they be?

All of Murphy’s alert buttons were flashing red. Slowly he entered the room that contained the large wooden chest. He took a quick glance around, his light following his turning head. He didn’t see anything. He was looking the other way when his feet hit something on the floor. He shined his light down into the face of Professor Reinhold.

Quickly bending down, he felt for a pulse. Nothing. Looking more closely, he noticed that Reinhold’s neck seemed to be at an odd angle, as if he’d broken it.

Or someone had broken it for him.

Suddenly things started to click into place. So Hodson
had
killed Valdez. And now Reinhold. Hodson had seemed extremely interested in the Philosopher’s Stone. With Murphy out of the way, he’d taken the opportunity to get rid of Reinhold and take the crystals for himself.

Murphy looked around. The box seemed to be gone.

So was Hodson already making his way down the mountain with his booty? Or did he have a rendezvous with someone else? Another chopper, perhaps?

Or was he waiting in the shadows for Murphy to return?

Murphy shined his headlight around the room in a wide arc. He couldn’t see anyone. And surely Hodson
would have just taken him out with his machine pistol by now, knowing that Murphy was unarmed. There was no reason to skulk in the dark.

Then the beam of his light caught something, and his breath stopped in his throat.

Perched on a crossbeam was Hodson’s head.

Before he could react, he heard a voice.

“You know, Murphy, these singing swords really live up to their name. That Tubal-cain was one smart guy. Poor old Hodson’s head just dropped like a ripe peach. Even if he’d been alive I’m sure he wouldn’t have felt a thing.”

Suddenly one of Tubal-cain’s crystal lights flashed on, and Murphy saw a black-clad man lounging against the far wall.

“Talon!”

“Got it in one,” Talon said gleefully, stepping forward. “For a professor of biblical archaeology you’re surprisingly sharp.” And he swung the singing sword in a wide, lazy circle in front of him. Behind him, Murphy could see a bulging rucksack.

For a moment, Murphy was too full of rage to register fear. All he wanted to do was close the distance between them and tear Talon apart with his bare hands.

Then there was a flash as the sword was launched through the air like a missile. Murphy ducked instinctively, but the throw had been aimed in a different direction. The sword point penetrated deeply into a wooden wall to his left with a noise like a cleaver chopping through a carcass.

“Fair’s fair,” said Talon. “You don’t seem to have your bow this time, and I really wouldn’t want an unfair
advantage.” His bright teeth flashed in a grin. “You know what a gentleman I am at heart.”

Murphy fought to control his emotions. Anger could lead to bad judgment. He needed to be cool. He had to push thoughts of Laura out of his mind. Otherwise, Talon was going to win.

And it was imperative that Talon not win. He couldn’t be allowed to walk off with the marvels of the ark.

He looked into the eyes of the man who had crushed Laura’s throat … the man who had shot Hank Baines … the man who had tried to murder Isis. And who now had killed Hodson and Reinhold.

And he felt nothing.

As they began to circle each other, the light from the vase on the floor made their shadows huge on the walls. It looked like some weird dance. A dance of death.

“After I finish with you, I’m going to bury your precious ark with an avalanche. You will be able to enjoy it forever, as your tomb.” Talon laughed suddenly. “Ironic, isn’t it—to meet your end on the ark of safety.”

Murphy didn’t react to Talon’s goading. He was filled with a pure, white-hot intensity that was beyond rage, beyond emotion. He tried to imagine he was a weapon being wielded by a force greater than himself.

Then Talon struck. He covered the distance between them with a jump kick to Murphy’s face. Murphy leaned to one side without changing his stance. He felt the wind of Talon’s foot as it creased his face, and struck out with a back fist to the shoulder blades as he passed by, making Talon stumble when he landed. He quickly recovered and turned to face Murphy.

“My, my, Professor. You’ve been practicing.”

But Talon’s first attack had not been serious. He was just testing Murphy’s reactions. The next moment he dropped low with a leg sweep, and Murphy found himself tumbling to the floor. He managed to turn the fall into a forward roll, but as he got back to his feet, Talon delivered a solid side kick to his ribs, sending him crashing against the table.

Murphy rose and deliberately held what little breath he had left. His body screamed for air. Slowly, he forced the rest of the air out of his lungs, closed his mouth, and sucked air in through his nose. Both of his feet were planted solidly on the ground. He didn’t feel any pain.

Talon advanced, smiling.

He launched a vicious spinning back kick. Murphy waited until the last millisecond before ducking under the kick and driving a palm heel into Talon’s jaw, sending him sprawling. Talon picked himself up, rubbing his jaw and frowning.

“Perhaps I’ve been underestimating you, Murphy. You’re a lot sharper than I remember. So let’s stop messing around and cut to the chase.”

He reached behind him and pulled two throwing knives from his belt.

Talon smirked. “Not exactly the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules, but who’s to know?”

He raised his arms and in a single motion threw the blades. Murphy had time to register a silvery blur of motion, and then without thinking he dived to his right, connecting with the safety railing guarding the central air shaft. The ancient wood shattered like matchsticks and he tumbled down into the darkness.
Talon raced over to the edge to hear a muffled thud as Murphy hit the floor below. He shone the vase down the shaft until he could see Murphy’s body lying crumpled on the wooden floor. He wasn’t moving.

For a moment Talon considered jumping down after him, but it was too risky. Murphy clearly wasn’t going anywhere, and even if he wasn’t dead, he soon would be when the avalanche struck.

Talon grabbed the rucksack, went up the ramp to the top level, and crawled out one of the windows. He stood on the roof and looked around. He wanted to survey his escape route after planting the explosive charge to set off the avalanche. He figured that it was about fifteen hundred feet of steep climbing before he could place the device.

He began to work his way up the hill behind the ark.

“Good-bye, Murphy,” he said to himself.

FORTY-FIVE

BAYER, LUNDQUIST, and Whittaker sat in the Huey and watched the snow-covered landscape unfold below them. It had taken three days of tough hiking to get to the ark. The journey back to Dogubayazit—where hot showers, comfortable beds, and plentiful food awaited them—would take only an hour and twenty minutes. For the first time in days, they allowed themselves to relax. The hard work was over.

“Hey, Vern, can you land this thing on that level spot next to the gorge?” Whittaker was pointing down to the right.

“What for?”

“I want a shot of the helicopter with Ararat in the background. All I would need is a couple of flybys. Ten minutes, max.”

“Sure. Not a problem. That is, if I can have a nice big print for Julie and Kevin.”

Whittaker laughed. “I think that can be arranged. I’ll take the other satellite phone with me. I’ll call you from the ground and give you directions, so I can get the best possible shot.”

Whittaker crawled in back and explained the plan to Bayer and Lundquist. They nodded and smiled. Whittaker rummaged through his rucksack, removing items he wouldn’t need, while Peterson gently landed the Huey on the level patch of rocky ground.

“Give me about two minutes to set up and then make a pass by from the south at about a hundred feet off the snow. I’ll call you and tell you what would be the best shot after that.”

“Roger!” said Peterson, giving Whittaker the thumbs-up sign as the photographer jumped out.

Whittaker watched the helicopter rise again, then sweep off to the south. He waited until it was out of sight before pushing the buttons on the satellite phone.

“Hey, Vern. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, Larry.”

“Great. Make your first pass by, then go out about a half mile and turn around and come back. I’ll film you all the way.”

“Roger that!”

Peterson made the first pass with Ararat in the background. The air was so clear, Whittaker could see the smiling expressions on the faces of Bayer and Lundquist. Both were waving.

Whittaker took several more shots on the second pass, then picked up the phone again.

“Can you take her down into the gorge, out of my line of sight, and then come straight back up? It would
make a spectacular shot, having the helicopter rise out of nowhere with the summit of Ararat in the background. Keep rising ‘til I tell you to stop and then just hover.”

“Piece of cake,” Peterson replied.

The Huey turned and disappeared over the lip of the gorge. There was silence, then Whittaker could hear the sound of the blades getting louder again. The Huey looked as if it were rising straight out of the snow.

Awesome
, thought Whittaker.
That shot has award-winning written all over it. Such a shame no one will ever see it
.

“Good-bye, Vern, thanks for the ride.”

Peterson sounded confused. “What did you say, Larry?”

Whittaker didn’t reply. He put the satellite phone back in his pack and pulled out a small control box.

He looked up and saw the helicopter turn in a tight circle before dropping back toward the gorge.

“You got good survival instincts, Vern,” Whittaker muttered to himself. “But not good enough.”

He pressed the red button just as the Huey disappeared into the gorge.

The thunder of the explosion was followed a moment later by a mushrooming orange fireball, and then blackened debris began raining down.

Whittaker jogged twenty yards farther away from the gorge until he was out of range of the falling debris. He quickly packed his camera gear and rearranged everything in his rucksack. He took out an energy bar and chewed for a while as he looked at the beauty of the snowcapped summit, then tossed the wrapper on the ground and watched it blow away in the breeze.

He sighed. “It really would have been nicer to get a ride down to Dogubayazit,” he said to himself. “But what the heck. A job’s a job.”

He dialed another number on the satellite phone.

“Whittaker here. It’s done.” He listened for a moment. “Survivors? No way. That baby went up like the Fourth of July.”

As Whittaker started trudging down the trail toward Dogubayazit, the charred remains of the Huey sank deeper into the snow lining the side of the gorge, sending a cascade of rocks rattling down into the abyss. Thirty yards away, Vern Peterson lifted his head and opened his eyes. He tried to turn his head to see if Bayer or Lundquist had managed to jump in time, but he knew in his heart they had perished in the fireball. It was the sixth sense of a combat veteran that had saved him—and only by a hair’s breadth.

He fell back into the snow again and closed his eyes. His thoughts turned to Vietnam. He imagined he was lying in a rice paddy, trying to keep still to conserve energy. Waiting for them to send another chopper to get him.

But this was Mount Ararat.

Who was going to save him now?