Atlantis: Gate (30 page)

“Right on track,” his navigator confirmed what the screen displayed.

“What are we heading toward?” Richards asked his systems officer, Major Rodriguez.

“Target is located one hundred and twenty miles east of the Falklands,” Rodriguez reported. “It is moving on a northward course at a speed of two hundred miles an hour. Target information is originating from muon transmissions being tracked by the super-kamiokande in Japan.”

Richards frowned. He’d read the classified reports on the Gates and they’d been told upon alert that this had something to do with that, but he preferred hard targeting data. “Anything from satellites?” he asked.

“No current coverage of that area,” Rodriguez reported.

Other than the British during the Falkland War, Richards knew, no one much cared about what happened in that part of the world, so it made sense there would be no spy satellites covering the area.

“Nav, ETA at target?” he asked.

“Twelve minutes, thirty-six seconds and counting.”

“What the hell is down there?” Richards wondered out loud.

***************

The water level had dropped over fifty feet already in Lake Baikal. Stunned Russians lined the shore, watching.

Stunned Americans looked out over a massive lake eighty miles long by twenty miles wide, stretching from New Madrid up and downstream. The current of the Mississippi ran through the center of the lake. Corpses continued to surface.

**************

“Let’s take this slow,” Richards said as he throttled back
Aurora
from Mach 7. They were over Bolivia with the Paraguay/Argentinean border rapidly approaching. Piloting
Aurora
was vastly different than even a jet fighter. When Richards thought of turning, he had to consider entire countries to be crossed. He wasn’t worried about violating sovereign airspace—they were so high no radar would pick them up as no one would think of ‘painting’ their altitude. By the time Richards had them ‘slowed’ to Mach 3, they were over Buenos Aires and then over the South Atlantic.

“Range?” Richards called out. Technically he could glance at his display and see the read-out, but he was old-school. He believed they were a crew and each man had to be responsible for his specific area. It was also good for morale if the other two crew members felt like they were pulling their weight. He continued to slow the plane below Mach 2.

“Two hundred clicks,” the navigator announced. “ETA in two minutes.”

“Paint me something,” Richards told Rodriguez.

“Extending imaging pod,” Rodriguez announced.

From the belly of the SR-75, a small door slid back. A hydraulic arm extended downward holding a cluster of sophisticated cameras that could pick up from infrared through ultraviolet and thermal images. If they were traveling any faster the entire array would be ripped off, another reason for Richard’s throttle back.

“One minute, thirty seconds,” the navigator reported.

Richards glanced down. Next to his forward looking display a smaller screen showed the imaging. “What the hell?” Richards muttered. A black rectangle filled the screen, almost filling from top to bottom and extending beyond the left and right limits. “Wide angle,” he ordered.

“That is wide angle,” Rodriguez said.

“Geez.” The word came out of Richards’s mouth without conscious thought even as he automatically pulled back on the throttle. “How big is that?” he asked, even though he had no idea what ‘that’ was.

“Radar indicates over two hundred miles wide by twenty high,” Rodriguez reported.

“What is it?” Richards asked as he checked his speed. Almost down to Mach 1.

“Thirty seconds,” the navigator announced.

Richards pushed his stick hard left, beginning a turn. He ignored his screens and looked out the small, thick windows in front of him, twisting his head to the right as the plane turned.

He saw it.

He would have been blind not to see it.

Stretching from horizon to horizon, left to right, a lattice work of black struts supported panels of gray material. The scale was beyond what Richards or his two crewmembers could comprehend. And in the very center was a black sphere a half mile in diameter. Even as they watched, more panels were unfolding at the ends, extending it further and further.

Lightning crackled around the panels and even forty kilometers away, the men aboard
Aurora
could feel the hair on the back of their necks tingle and raise.

“What the hell is that thing doing?” Richards wondered as he completed the turn.

***************

On board the FLIP, Foreman echoed Richards’ question. And he received an answer. “Water and air,” Ahana whispered, staring at the image relayed from
Aurora
.

“What?” Foreman demanded.

“The Shadow is draining Baikal, getting fresh water.” Ahana pointed up. “We have a better idea of the layers of the atmosphere surrounding the planet than the layers inside the planet given the simple fact that man has traveled through all those layers on their way into space. That doesn’t necessarily mean that any intelligence has been attached to the knowledge gained.” She tapped the imagery. “From the surface of the planet reaching up to fifteen kilometers is the troposphere. The next five kilometers—where this thing is-- is the transition between troposphere and stratosphere, which extends outward from twenty to fifty kilometers. A relatively small constituent element of the stratosphere is made of three oxygen molecules bonded together. It is called ozone.”

“Oxygen came into the Earth’s atmosphere approximately two billion years ago as a by-product of photosynthesis of early forms of plant life. Enough by-product was produced over time to make oxygen a large component of air, which extends upward almost three hundred kilometers from the surface. At the top, in the rarified upper atmosphere, high energy ultraviolet radiation from the sun hits circulating O2 molecules, splitting them into their constituent atoms. The single atoms swirl together to form O3, or ozone, which in time breaks down to oxygen, which in a perpetual dance circulates up and is split down to individual atoms and then back into ozone.”

“There isn’t much ozone in the stratosphere. If it were at surface level, the layer would be no more than a tenth of an inch thick. But it is a very important tenth of an inch because it screens out long wave ultraviolet-C light and most ultraviolet-B radiation. Both of these are extremely harmful to living organisms.”

“It was only in 1974 that we began to realize both how important this layer of ozone was and how damaged something that had taken a billion years to develop became in less than a century. It started in the 1930s when man invented chlorine, fluorine and carbon compounds, known as CFCs for industrial applications. CFCs react with practically nothing and thus once used, float into the atmosphere, rise up to the ozone layer and above where the UV radiation finally breaks them down, releasing chlorine or bromine, which does react with ozone, destroying it. It isn’t just man that affects the ozone. Erupting volcanoes spew ash that also interacts with ozone, depleting it.”

“It appears to me that the Shadow is using this thing to take in both oxygen and ozone. Notice the discharges. Hell, that thing could be breaking the O-2 and O-3 down to single molecules for transport back, then reconstitute them when it goes through the Gate.”

Ahana sat down wearily, rubbing her fingers against her temples. “The Shadow is stripping us of our most precious resources. Even if we stop the core destruction, there might not be anything to save.”

CHAPTER 24 480 BC

Cyra lay still on the hard ground, slowly taking inventory of her body. She felt as if she had been severely beaten. Every muscle ached and her fingers were torn, the wounds still oozing blood. She slowly sat up, grimacing in pain. As she expected, the Spartans were already awake and moving, even though dawn was an hour away. She could see Leonidas ten feet away, his squire slowly rubbing oil onto his skin, then kneading the muscles underneath, loosening them.

“It will be a clear day,” Leonidas said in a low voice, as if respecting the darkness. Cyra glanced up. The sky was clear, thousands of stars sparkling overhead. She heard muted laughter from a group of warriors as she gathered her cloak tight around her shoulders. “How do you feel this morning?” Leonidas asked, his teeth flashing as he gave a quick

smile. “Fine.” The smile was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “It will be a long day,” the King said. “You must hold until tomorrow,” Cyra said. “And then we can die?” Cyra wasn’t certain whether it was a question or a statement. She noted a red tinge on the

horizon, but in the wrong direction, to the north. Leonidas must have noticed her looking that way. “The Persian camp is like a false dawn.

They burn much wood. An army on the march is like locusts, devouring everything in its path.” “It is a waste,” Cyra said. “Yes, it is.” Leonidas wasn’t looking to the north though, but rather at a cluster of young

Spartans who were sharpening their xiphos. “I want you to stay behind the wall this morning. I

don’t want the men to see you once they form.” “Why is that?” “You remind them of home. Of their families. Their wives.” “Isn’t that a good thing?” Cyra asked. “They know why they fight,” Leonidas said. “I want their focus on battle” Cyra nodded. “I will tend to the wounded. Those who cannot fight.”

“Stay close to the wall, on the south side, near the wounded,” Leonidas said.

“Why?”

“You will see.”

***************

Metal on metal, leather creaking, men cursing. The Persian army began to stir and move. The orders had been issued, taking hours to trickle from general down to squad leader. Those chosen to fight this day, their fates decided by a few old men sitting in the King’s tent the previous evening, began to gird themselves for battle. Those not called up said their silent prayers at being spared for this day at least.

Stories circulated the camp from those who had met the Spartans in battle, mostly from the Egyptians, but even some of the Immortals had told tales late at night. And as with most armies, the stories became exaggerated. The Spartans were seven feet tall. They fought with limbs cut off. It took a dozen normally mortal blows to kill one. There was even a story there were only three hundred of them in the pass. Men shook the heads disbelieving this last story— three hundred could not hold for two days, not fight off the Immortals.

***************

The real dawn came with a blazing red sun rising over the Gulf. Leonidas had his armor on and was pacing along the top of the Middle Gate, deploying his men. The Spartans formed a double line as they had the previous day, directly in front of the diminished stone wall. The sound of bugles and drums echoed up the pass, indicating the Persians on the march.

A squad of skiritai came jogging back and their leader went directly to Leonidas. “Five hundred foot of Scythians—heavy infantry—lead. Behind—archers. At least four thousand. Different nationalities. Some I’ve never seen before.”

Leonidas nodded. As expected. “Join the squires,” he ordered the rangers. He raised his voice so all could hear. “Knights! Listen. The Persians come just as we expected. A wall of heavy infantry and behind them archers. We are ready for that. As your aching backs can tell

you.”

That brought a low chuckle from the men.

“But we must stand fast for most of the morning before we implement our plan. I do not want any of you to fall asleep from boredom.”

Leonidas waited out the laughter. “As you already know from the soldier’s vine, the rest of our army is four day’s march away. And the only reinforcements closer are two hundred archers under Lichas.

There was no laughter. From her place with the seriously wounded Cyra was surprised that Leonidas would tell them such negative information yet he didn’t want her in front of the wall for fear of affecting the morale.

“That is the state of things,” Leonidas said simply. “Are there any questions before the Persians arrive and we begin our day’s work?”

There were none and Leonidas hopped off the wall and walked the line, checking his men, paying particular attention to those who had been wounded the previous day, making sure they were up to the task.

“Hey, old man,” he stopped in front of Polynices who sported a blood-soaked bandage poking out from underneath his helmet. “Did some Persian try to knock a little sense into you?”

Polynices laughed. “If he had achieved that, I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

“True, true,” Leonidas agreed. “I assume you sent whoever dealt you the blow to his gods?”

“I parted his head from his body,” Polynices said. “His gods might not recognize him.”

The Spartan King edged closer and lowered his voice. “What do you think? Can we hold the day?”

“If their generals are stupid—yes.”

“If their generals are smart, what would they do?” Leonidas asked, even though he knew what he would be ordering if he were the Persian leader.

“Heavy infantry in assault after assault all morning regardless of casualties to keep us engaged in the pass while using the fleet to land to our rear.”

That was Leonidas’s greatest fear—that the Persians would simply land troops behind them. He had rangers posted to watch the Persian ships and so far the fleet remained still, the only activity barges landing to bring food and supplies to the massive army. Perhaps the Persians thought there were more Greeks marching this way and such a maneuver could turn into a rout with the landed troops caught between the pass and the reinforcements.

“Do not worry,” Polynices said. “The Persian army is too large for a general to think straight. It takes enough brainpower simply to move the entire thing and keep it fed. Not much left over to figure out how to employ it in battle.”

Leonidas looked around now that he could see. He noted the Persians’ ships in the Gulf to the north. And the contingent of finely garbed soldiers surrounding their King as he made his way to the throne set on the mountainside. And then up the steep mountain to the top, noting the scrub covered slope, then back down to the pass.