Seven Ancient Wonders (10 page)

INSIDE THE KANYAMANAGA VOLCANO UGANDA, AFRICA 20 MARCH, 1996, 11:47 A.M.

The images of West’s dreams:

West running desperately down an ancient stone passageway with Wizard at his side, toward the sounds of booming drums, chanting and a woman’s terrified screams.

It’s hot.

Hot as Hell.

And since it’s inside a volcano, it even
looks like
Hell.

It is just the two of them—plus Horus, of course. The team does not even exist at this time.

Their clothes are covered in mud and tar—they’ve survived a long and arduous path to get here. West wears his fireman’s helmet and thick-soled army boots. Ten years younger, at age 27 he is more idealistic but no less intense. His eyes are narrow, focused. And his left arm is his own.

Boom-boom-boom!
go the drums.

The chanting increases.

The woman’s screams cut the air.

‘We must hurry!’ Wizard urges. ‘They’ve started the ritual!’

They pass through several booby-trapped passageways—each of which West neutralises.

Ten disease-carrying molossid bats burst forth from a dark ceiling recess, fangs bared—only to have Horus launch herself off West’s shoulder and plunge into their midst, talons raised. A thudding
mid-air collision. Squeals and shrieks. Two bats smack down against the floor, brought down by the little falcon.

That splits the bats and the two men dash through them, Horus catching up moments later.

West is confronted by a long downward-sloping shaft. It’s like a 100-metre-long stone pipe, steeply slanted, big enough for him to fit if he sits down.

Boom
go the drums.

The evil chanting is close now.

The woman’s frenzied screams are like nothing he has ever heard: pained, desperate, primal.

West shoots a look to Wizard.

The older man waves him on. ‘Go! Jack! Go! Get to her! I’ll catch up!’

West leaps feet-first into the pipe-shaft and slides fast.

Five traps later, he emerges from the bottom of the long stone pipe on . . .

. . . a balcony of some kind.

A balcony which overlooks a large ceremonial cavern.

He peers out from the balcony’s railing and beholds the horrifying sight.

The woman lies spreadeagled on a rough stone altar, tied down, legs spread wide, writhing and struggling,
terrified
.

She is surrounded by about twenty priest-like figures all wearing hooded black robes and fearsome jackal masks of the Egyptian god Anubis.

Six of the priests pound on huge lion-skin drums.

The rest chant in a strange language.

Incongruously, surrounding the circle of robed priests, all facing outward, are sixteen paratroopers in full battle-dress uniforms. They are French, all brandishing ugly FN-MAG assault rifles, and their eyes are deadly.

Beyond all this, the chamber itself catches West’s attention.

Cut into the very flesh of the volcano, it branches off the volcano’s glowing-red core and is octagonal in shape.

It is also ancient—very ancient.

Every surface is flat. The stone walls are so perfectly cut they look almost alien. Sharp-edged rectangular pipe-holes protrude from the sidewalls.

Hieroglyphics cover the walls. In giant letters above the main door, the biggest carving reads:

‘Enter the embrace of Anubis willingly, and you shall live beyond the coming of Ra. Enter against your will, and your people shall rule for but one eon, but you shall live no more. Enter not at all, and the world shall be no more.
’

Interestingly, the raised pattern on the high ceiling exactly matches the indentations on the floor fifty feet below.

The ceiling also features a tiny vertical shaft bored into it—in the exact centre, directly above the altar.

This ultra-narrow vertical shaft must reach all the way to the surface because right now, a beam of noonday sunlight—perfectly vertical, laser-thin and dazzlingly bright—shines down through the tiny hole, hitting . . .

. . . the altar on which the woman lies.

And one other thing:

The woman is pregnant.

More than that.

She is in the process of giving birth . . .

It is obviously painful, but it’s not the only reason for her screams.

‘
Don’t take my child!
’ she cries. ‘Don’t . . . you . . . take . . . my . . . baby!’

The priests ignore her pleas, keep chanting, keep drumming.

Separated from the ceremonial chamber by a chasm fifty feet wide and God-only-knows how deep, West can only stare helplessly at the scene.

And then, suddenly, a new cry joins the wild cacophony of sounds.

The cry of a baby.

The woman
has given birth
. . .

The priests cheer.

And then the chief priest—he alone is dressed in red robes and wears no mask—pulls the child from the woman’s body and holds it aloft, illuminated by the vertical laser beam of sunlight.

‘A boy!’ he cries.

The priests cheer again.

And in that moment, as the chief priest holds the child high, West sees his face.

‘Del Piero . . .’ he breathes.

The woman wails, ‘Please God, no! Don’t take him! No!
Noooo!
’

But take him they do.

The priests sweep out the main entrance on the far side of the chamber, crossing a short bridge, their cloaks billowing, the boy held tightly in their midst, flanked by the armed paratroopers.

As they do, the noonday Sun moves on and the dazzling vertical laser beam of light vanishes.

The chief priest—Francisco del Piero—is the last to leave. With a final look, he stomps on a trigger stone in the main doorway and then disappears.

The response is instantaneous.

Spectacular streams of lava come blurting out of the rectangular holes in the walls of the cavern. The lava oozes across the floor of the chamber, heading toward the central stone altar.

At the same time, the ceiling of the chamber starts
lowering
—its irregular form moving towards the matching configuration on the floor. It even has a special indentation in it to accommodate the altar.

The woman on the altar doesn’t notice.

Either from emotional torment or loss of blood, she just slumps back onto the altar and goes still, silent.

Wizard arrives at West’s side, beholds the terrible scene.

‘Oh my God, we’re too late,’ he breathes.

West stands quickly.

‘It was del Piero,’ he says. ‘With French paratroopers.’

‘The Vatican and the French have joined forces . . .’ Wizard gasps.

But West has already raised a pressure-gun and fires it into the lowering ceiling of the chamber. The piton drives into the stone. A rope hangs from it.

‘What on Earth are you doing?’ Wizard asks, alarmed.

‘I’m going over there,’ West says. ‘I said I’d be there for her and I failed. But I’m not going to let her get crushed to nothing.’

And with that, he swings across the gaping chasm.

The ceiling keeps lowering.

The lava keeps spreading across the floor from either side, approaching the altar.

But with his quick swing, West beats it, and he rushes to the middle of the chamber, where he stands over the body of the woman.

A quick pulse-check reveals that she is dead.

West squeezes his eyes shut.

‘I’m so sorry, Malena . . .’ he whispers, ‘ . . . so sorry.’

‘Jack! Hurry!’ Wizard calls from the balcony. ‘The lava!’

The lava is eight metres away . . . and closing on him from both sides.

Over at the main entrance, a waterfall of oozing lava pours out of a rectangular hole
above
the doorway, forming a curtain across the exit.

West places his hand on the woman’s face, closes her eyes. She is still warm. His gaze sweeps down her body, over the sagging skin of her abdomen, the skin over her pregnant belly now rumpled with the removal of the child formerly there.

Then for some reason, West touches her belly.

And feels a tiny little kick.

He leaps back, startled.

‘Max!’ he calls. ‘Get over here!
Now!
’

A gruesome yet urgent image: flanked by the encroaching lava and the steadily lowering ceiling, the two men perform a Caesarean delivery on the dead woman’s body using West’s Leatherman knife.

Thirty seconds later, Wizard lifts a
second
child from the woman’s slit-open womb.

It is a girl.

Her hair is pressed against her scalp, her body covered in blood and uterine fluid, her eyes squeezed shut.

West and Wizard, battered and dirty, two adventurers at the end of a long journey, gaze at her like two proud fathers.

West in particular gazes at the little infant, entranced.

‘Jack!’ Wizard says. ‘Come on! We have to get out of here.’

He turns to grab their loosely hanging rope—just as the spreading lava reaches it and ignites it with a
whoosh!

No escape that way.

Holding the baby, West spins to face the main entrance.

Fifteen metres of inch-deep lava blocks the way.

And then there’s the curtain of falling lava blocking the doorway itself.

But then he sees it, cut into the left side of the stone doorframe:
a small round hole
maybe a handspan wide, veiled by the same waterfall of superheated lava.

West says, ‘How thick are your soles?’

‘Thick enough for a few seconds,’ Wizard replies. ‘But there’s no way to switch off that lavafall.’

‘Yes, there is,’ West nods over at the small hole. ‘See that hole. There’s a stone dial inside it, hidden behind that curtain of lava. A cease mechanism that switches off the lavafall.’

‘But, Jack, anyone who reaches in there will lose their—’

Wizard sees that West isn’t listening. The younger man is just staring intently at the wall-hole.

West bites his lip, thinking the unthinkable.

He swallows, then turns to Wizard: ‘Can you build me a new arm, Max?’

Wizard freezes.

He knows it’s the only way out of this place.

‘Jack. If you get us out of here, I promise you I’ll build you a better arm than the one you were born with.’

‘Then you carry her and let’s go.’ West hands the baby to Wizard.

And so they run, West in the lead, Wizard and the baby behind him, across the inch-deep pool of slowly spreading lava, crouching beneath the descending ceiling, the thick soles of their boots melting slightly with every stride.

Then they arrive at the lava-veiled doorway, and with no time to waste, West goes straight to the small hole next to the doorframe, takes a deep breath and—

—thrusts his left arm into the hole, up to the elbow,
through
the waterfall of lava!

‘
Ahhhh!
’

The pain is like nothing he has ever known. It is excruciating.

He can see the lava
eating
through his own arm like a blowtorch burning through metal. Soon it will eat all the way through, but for a short time he still has feeling in his fingers and that’s what he needs, because suddenly he touches something.

A stone dial inside the wall-hole.

He grips the dial, and a moment before his entire lower arm is severed from his body, Jack West Jr turns it and abruptly all the lavafalls flowing into the chamber stop.

The ceiling freezes in mid-descent.

The lavafall barring the doorway dries up.

And West staggers away from the wall-hole . . .

. . . to reveal that his left arm has indeed been severed at the elbow. It ends at a foul stump of melted bone, flesh and skin.

West sways unsteadily.

But Wizard catches him and the two of them—plus the child— stumble out through the doorway where they fall to the floor of a stone tunnel.

West collapses, gripping his half-arm, going into shock.

Wizard puts the baby down and hurriedly removes West’s melting shoes—before also removing his own a bare second before their soles melt all the way through.

Then he dresses West’s arm with his shirt. The red-hot lava has seared the wound, which helps.

Then it is over.

And the final image of West’s dream is of Wizard and himself, sitting in that dark stone tunnel, spent and exhausted, with a little baby girl between them, in the belly of an African volcano.

And Wizard speaks:

‘This . . . this is unprecedented. Totally unheard of in all recorded history. Two oracles.
Twin
oracles. And del Piero doesn’t know . . .’

He turns to West. ‘My young friend. My
brave
young friend. This complicates matters in a whole new way. And it might just give us a chance in the epic struggle to come. We must alert the member states and call a meeting, perhaps the most important meeting of the modern age.’