The Devil Colony (53 page)

Painter 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.

Mummified bodies, thousands of them, covered the floor of a vast cavern, rising at least seven stories high. The desiccated figures seemed to have arranged themselves in rows, radiating out from a massive temple in the center like spokes on a wheel.

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.

“What is that place?” Kai asked. “Looks like Pueblo construction but the shape’s all wrong.”

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.

And Ryan didn’t.

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!”

They had to find a castle to defend. The nest of boulders would do until he could figure out something better. Rounds blasted into the dirt around him. Ahead, Jordan had already ducked into hiding behind the rocks.

His two men—Marshall and Boydson—flanked Ryan, running low.

All three hit the boulders and dove down.

Ryan freed his rifle and found a crevice between two rocks to use as a roost. He stared as eight men vacated the first chopper. Moments later, the second dipped down like a deadly hummingbird and unloaded the same number.

That made it twenty to three.

Those were not good odds.

5:51
A.M.

Rafael checked his watch.

Bern should be securing the surface by now.

He tried to listen for the spatter of gunfire, but they were too far underground to hear. Plus, the large gold fountain they’d passed on the way to the temple was burbling and splashing over the bowl’s lip, accompanied by gaseous popping sounds.

Rafe hurried past, holding his breath, followed by Ashanda and the girl. His two bodyguards kept several steps ahead, creating a shield between him and the others.

Sigma’s geologist glanced back to the bubbling gold bath. “They’ve tapped into the geothermal currents running through here. This whole place must be resting at the edge of that steam engine driving the basin’s natural hydraulics.”

But eventually even the geologist was drawn forward, staring at the giant temple. It seemed to grow taller the closer they got, supported by gold pillars adorned with sculpted sheaves of wheat and stalks of corn, all wrapped with flowering vines.

Could this truly be a model of Solomon’s Temple?
Rafe wondered.

A part of him thrilled at that thought, but a much larger part sensed the danger pressing down upon them all.

The professor spoke as they climbed the stairs up to the front porch of the ancient structure. “Solomon’s Temple—often called the First Temple of Jerusalem—was the first religious structure to be built atop Mount Zion. Rabbinic scholars say it lasted for four centuries until its destruction in the sixth century
BCE
. It stood during the time that the Assyrians scattered the ten tribes of Israel to the winds.”

The old man waved an arm toward the structure before them. “This was their place of worship. But it was also a citadel of knowledge and science. King Solomon was said in many stories to wield magical, otherworldly powers. But what is one man’s magic is another man’s science.”

Kanosh led them forward in space, while in his mind he went back in time. “Perhaps these
Tawtsee’untsaw Pootseev
were once magi in service to Solomon, bringing together Jewish mystical practices and Egyptian science. Until they were scattered by the invading Assyrians. After they arrived in the New World, they did their best to preserve the memory of that great temple to religion and science, borrowing the techniques of the ancient Pueblo people to construct it.”

Reaching the porch, Professor Kanosh hurried forward toward the open doors.

“The first chamber should be the
Hekhal
or Holy Place,” Hank said.

They all pushed across a vestibule into the first chamber. It was empty, its walls lined by pine logs, fashioned elaborately with animal totems: bear, elk, wolf, sheep, eagle.

“In Solomon’s Temple, this chamber was decorated with carvings of cherubim, flowers, and palm trees. But these ancient builders clearly absorbed the physical characteristics of their new home into their design.”

“But it’s empty,” Painter said, and checked his watch.

“I know.” Kanosh pointed to another set of stairs that led up to a doorway partitioned by gold chains. “If we’re looking for the temple’s most sacred objects, they’ll be there. A room called
Kodesh Hakodashim,
the Holy of Holies, the inner sanctum of Solomon’s Temple. It is in here that Solomon kept the Ark of the Covenant.”

Painter led the way, buffeted forward by the pressure of time. The others chased him up the steps. One of Rafe’s guards offered Rafe an arm to help him follow. He did not refuse it.

He heard gasps ahead and hobbled faster, striking the stone floor hard with his cane, angry at his disability. Ashanda stepped forward with her young charge and held the chain curtain open for him. He ducked through on his own, releasing the guard’s arm.

He stumbled into a room that left him trembling in awe. Gold covered every surface, floor to ceiling. Massive plates—three stories high—made up the walls, like gargantuan versions of those smaller gold tablets. And like those miniatures, writing covered the walls here in their entirety, millions of lines, flowing all around.

Hank had fallen to his knees between two fifteen-foot-tall sculptures of bald eagles, upright, side by side, wings outstretched to touch the walls on either side and tip to tip in the middle. “In Solomon’s Temple, these were giant cherubim, winged angels.”

Even Painter had halted his headlong rush forward to gawk. “They look like the eagles on the Great Seal. Did someone show Jefferson a drawing of this space?”

Hank just shook his head, too moved to speak anymore.

Rafe felt a similar stirring—how could he not?—but he knew his duty. “Record all of this,” he ordered one of his men, sweeping his cane to encompass the walls. “This must not be lost.”

“But where are the caches of nanotech?” Painter asked.

“That is a puzzle I will leave to you, Monsieur Crowe.”

That cache was going to blow anyway, so Rafe saw no need to chase down that trail. The true treasure was here: the accumulated knowledge of the ancients. He ran a palm along the wall, casting his eyes from roof to ceiling, trying to preserve it all with his unique eidetic memory, to bank it away into his organic hard drive. He moved step by step around the room, lost in the rivers of ancient script. Here must be their history, their ancient sciences, their lost art, all recorded in gold.

He must possess it.

It could be his family’s entry to the True Bloodline.

A shout rose to the side, but he did not turn.

It was Sigma’s geologist. “Director, there’s a door back here—and a body.”

5:55
A.M.

Deafened by the continuous firefight, Major Ashley Ryan did not hear the small team flanking his nest of boulders. Pinned down, he and his two men did their best to hold their castle—picking off targets when they could, driving back raids and attempts to swarm them.

Bern’s commandos had control of the valley floor, holding the entrance to the tunnel below. Ryan could not even reach his men’s packs and extra ammo.

Then a sharp barking drew his attention back and to the left.

The alarm saved his life—all of their lives.

Ryan flicked a gaze in that direction. Spotted a shadowy trio of commandos slip low out of the dark tree line and race low toward his team’s flank.

The dog leaped atop the boulder and bayed a challenge.

Ryan rolled, freeing his rifle from the boulder roost. He used the distraction caused by the dog to pop the lead assassin in the face with two rounds. The man went down. The other two commandos fired. The dog yelped, one foreleg shattering under him. The dog toppled off the boulder and hit the grass.