Robert Doherty - Area 51 - The Grail

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PROLOGUE:

THE PAST

AVALON, ENGLAND 528 AD

Thick clouds were gathering over the island, lightning flickering, followed by

thunder seconds later, as if the gods were displaying their displeasure over

the scene below. A large plain in western England stretched as far as could be

seen in all directions. In the center was a shallow lake out of which jutted a

long, steep island like an earthen rampart, a magnificent Tor, over five

hundred feet high. At the very top, a stone abbey with one tall tower

dominated the land and water all about. Next to the abbey, a dozen men in

armor were gathered round their leader who lay next to the tower's east wall.

The king the knights called Arthur was dying, of that there was no doubt

among the few surviving men. The wounds were too deep, the loss of blood too

great. Despite the king's weakened state, his right hand still firmly held the

pommel of his sword Excalibur. A coating of blood failed to hide the bright

sheen of the blade's finely worked metal and the mystical runes carved on the

surface.

Arthur lay on his back, his armor dented and battered. His bright blue eyes

looked up toward the dark heavens. He was a large man, a fiercesome warrior,

over six and a half feet tall and solidly built. Red hair streaked with gray

topped his head. Despite spending most of his life in the field at war, his

skin was fair and pale.

Several of the knights were looking to the east, in the direction of

Camlann, where they had come from. The day had started with some hope of peace

in the civil war splitting Britain. Arthur's forces and those of Mordred had

been drawn up on opposing sides of the plain at Camlann. Under a flag of truce

the two leaders had met in the high grass in the middle of the field, out of

earshot of their followers. What transpired between the two held the fate of

all the other men who waited, sweaty hands on the pommels of their swords and

the hafts of their spears.

It appeared to end well as the king and Mordred shook hands. As Arthur

turned to return to his troops Mordred struck a dastardly blow with a hidden

dagger, wounding the king. Arthur spun about, pulling Excalibur out of its

sheath. He slashed down, striking Mordred on the shoulder, cleaving through

the armor. The wounded men staggered back as both armies thundered forward

into the fray.

Arthur's knights drew him back from the front lines, as did Mordred's. Again

and again, the armies charged until the field was strewn with the dead and

dying.

Few on either side were still alive when they left. War-hardened though they

were, none of the knights had ever seen such a blood lust descend on both

sides in a battle, not even when they had fought the crazed Scotsmen of the

north—and this battle had been between Englishmen, knights who had sworn an

oath to a code of conduct. But today no quarter had been given, wounded slain

where they lay, unarmored auxiliaries hacked to pieces, suited knights dragged

from their horses and pounded to death, blades slammed through visors or under

the armpit where they could get through the armor.

At least Arthur had struck Mordred a grievous blow

with Excalibur before going down; they had all seen that. They could only hope

the boy-bastard was dying or already dead.

None on the Tor knew who had won or if the battle was even over yet. Shortly

after the king had been seriously wounded, his inner circle of bodyguards,

known as the core of the Round Table, had placed Arthur on a pallet and

dragged him away while the battle still raged. No courier had come with word

of victory or defeat.

They felt the dark, rolling clouds overhead threatening a vicious storm to

be a portent even though Merlin was not there to read the signs. Where the

sorcerer had gone in the days before the battle was a mystery, and there were

many who now cursed his name. Regardless, they knew the Age of Camelot was

done and the darkness of barbarism and ignorance would descend once more on

England.

The knights turned in surprise as the thick wooden door in the side of the

abbey creaked opened. They had pounded on the door without success when they'd

first arrived by boat thirty minutes ago. They'd brought Arthur here because

of the legend—that on the isle of Avalon dwelt the Fisher-King and his chosen

knights; men who were immortal and who could bestow the healing gift on those

they deemed worthy. And would not King Arthur, of all who walked the Earth, be

worthy?

But on arrival they had found an apparently deserted island, with the tower

locked tight.

In the now open doorway stood a man framed by light from behind. Robed in

black, the man's hands were empty of weapons, his face etched with age, his

hair silver. He was breathing hard, as if he had come a long way. Despite his

non-threatening appearance, the knights stepped aside as he gestured for them

to part,

allowing him access to the king—all except the knight closest to Arthur.

"Are you the Fisher-King?" Percival asked as the man came close. He was

always the boldest in strange situations or when the king was threatened.

Percival's armor was battered and blood seeped out from under his left arm

where a dagger had struck just before Arthur sustained his final wound.

Percival's right hand gripped his sword, ready to defend Arthur, to amend for

not taking the blow that had downed the king. He was a stout man, not tall but

broad of shoulders, with dark hair plastered to his head with sweat. A thin

red line ran along one cheek where a blade had struck a glancing blow.

The stranger paused. "No, I am not a king."

"Are you a monk?" Percival persisted, leery of allowing a stranger next to

the king.

"You may call me that."

Percival looked over the man's cloak, noting the trim on the ends of the

sleeves, the chain around his neck. "You dress like Merlin. Are you one of the

priests of the old religion, the tree worshippers? A sorcerer of the dark

arts?"

The man paused. "My line has been here on Yniswitrin, what you call Avalon,

since the dawn of time. But we worship no gods and practice no sorcery."

"You're a Druid?" Percival persisted. "It is said the Druids have been on

this island forever. That they sing the eternal song here, but we found no one

when we arrived."

"There is no time for questions." The man knelt down, placing his wrinkled

hands over the king's bloodstained ones.

"Can you heal him?" Percival was now the only one close; the others stood

near the edge of the Tor, attention split between what was happening to their

king and

the water to the east, from which news of victory or the promise of death in

defeat would come. They had no doubt that if Mordred's side won, there would

be no mercy.

"The healers—such as they are—will arrive shortly, I believe," the monk

said.

"What healers?" Percival demanded.

"There are things beyond you. You waste precious time. Let me speak to the

king in private for a moment—to give him absolution in a way only he will

understand."

"You said you worshipped no god," Percival argued.

"You brought him here, now let me do what is necessary," the monk snapped.

He raised a hand toward Percival and struggled to control his voice. "I mean

him no harm."

Arthur spoke for the first time. "Leave us, Percival. There is nothing to

fear from this man."

Reluctantly, Percival joined the other knights.

The monk leaned close so that only Arthur could hear his words. "Give me the

key."

Arthur's eyes turned to the man. They showed none of his pain. "I have heard

of you. You are Brynn, are you not?"

The monk nodded.

Arthur continued. "You are the Watcher of this island. It was one of your

people who started all this. Merlin."

Brynn shook his head. "We called him Myrddin. He is a traitor to the oath he

swore. He is not of my people any longer. You, of all people, should know well

how there can be traitors among a close-knit group. My group has been

scattered for many, many years."

"What do you want?" Arthur asked.

"The key. I will keep it safe."

"My people will keep the key safe," Arthur replied, his eyes shifting up to

the dark clouds. "Merlin gave it to me to offset the Grail. It was never

intended to be used, and it hasn't been. You don't even know what it really

does."

"Merlin should never have unearthed the key or the Grail," Brynn said. "He

is one of those that upset the balance in the first place."

"I tried to do good," Arthur said. "To rectify what was done. To restore the

balance."

There was a commotion among the knights watching the water, cries of alarm

that Brynn and Arthur could hear.

"And what if the others get here first?" Brynn hissed. "A ship bearing

Mordred's insignia has just been sighted offshore approaching quickly. Would

you give them Excalibur and what it controls? I promise to keep the key safe

inside the Tor. They will never find it. And when your people come at the

anointed time, I will give it to them. Remember—we only watch, we do not

choose sides."

"No?"

Brynn placed his hand on Arthur's forehead. "You will be dead soon."

"I will not give it to you."

Brynn's hand slid down and with two fingers he snatched at Arthur's left eye

before the king could react. Between his fingers dangled a small sliver of

blue; a contact lens, incongruous with the armor and other accoutrements.

Arthur blinked and his eyes opened wide, revealing a red pupil within a red

iris. The pupil was a shade darker than the iris and elongated vertically like

a cat's.

Brynn cocked his head, indicating the knights. "I will show them what you

really are. You cannot allow

that. What good you have done, what you are so proud of, would be washed away

with that truth. You will be remembered as a monster, not a king. Not as the

leader of the Round Table, which you worked so hard to establish."

Arthur closed his eyes, pain finally beginning to show on his face. "What

about the Grail?"

"Mordred's men had it briefly, but they did not know what it was or have

time to take it to him. He too lies dying. One of my order was in their camp

and recovered the Grail. He will take it far from here. We will return

everything to the way it was."

"Do not lie to me."

"I swear on my ring—" Brynn held a metal ring in front of the king's face, a

ring with a human eye, etched on the surface "—and on my order and on my son,

the next Brynn, the next Watcher of Yniswitrin, that I speak the truth."

One of the knights cried out from the Tor's tower, warning that the ship

bearing Mordred's colors was about to land.

Arthur's voice was low, as if he were speaking to himself. "That is all I

sought by coming to England. To reinstate order, and maybe help your people a

little."

"Then let me finish it," Brynn argued. "Let me restore the truce, Artad's

Shadow."

The king started at the mention of his true identity. "You must keep that

secret. I have worked very hard for a very long time to keep that secret from

men."

"I will if you give me the key. There is not much time. I must get back

inside the Tor to keep Mordred's men from getting the key."

Arthur's hand released its grip. "Take it."

Brynn placed Excalibur under his robe, tight against his body. As he

prepared to stand, Arthur grabbed his

arm. "Keep your word, Watcher. You know I will be back."

Brynn nodded. "I know that. It is written that your war will come again, not

like this, but covering the entire planet. And when that happens, I know you

will return."

A weary smile crossed Arthur's lips. "It is a war beyond the planet,

Watcher. Beyond the planet in ways you could not conceive of. Your people

still know so little. Even on Atlantis your ancestors knew nothing of reality,

of the universe. Merlin was foolish to try to take the Grail. Its time has not

come yet."

"We know enough," Brynn said. He stood and quickly walked through the

doorway. It swung shut behind him with a solid thud.

Percival approached the king. "Sire, the enemy approaches. We must move

you."

Arthur shook his head, his eyes closed tightly. "No. I will stay here. All

of you go. Spread the story of what we tried to do. Tell of the good, of the

code of honor. Leave me here. I will be gone shortly."

The protests were immediate, Percival foremost among them. "Sire, we will

fight Mordred's traitors to the death. Our lives for yours."

"No. It is my last command. You will obey it as you have obeyed all my other

commands."

Only then did Percival notice the sword was gone. "Excalibur! Where is it?"

"The monk has it." Arthur's voice was very low now. "He will keep it safe

until it is needed again. I will return. I promise you that. Go now! Escape

while you can and tell the world of the good deeds we did."

One by one, the surviving knights bid their king farewell and slipped into

the storm, disappearing over

the western side of the hill until only Percival remained. He came to the

king, kneeling next to him. "Sire."

Arthur didn't open his eyes., "Percival, you must leave also. You have been

my most faithful knight, but I release you from your service."

"I swore an oath," Percival said, "never to abandon you. I will not now, my

Lord."

"You must. It will do you no good to stay. You cannot be here when they come

for me."

"I will fight Mordred's men."

"I do not speak of those slaves who blindly obey with no free will."

Percival frowned. "Who comes for you, then?"

Arthur reached up and grabbed his knight's arm. "There is something you can

do, Percival. Something I want you to do. A quest."

Percival placed his hand over the blood-spattered one of his king. "Yes,

Lord?"

"Search for the Grail."

"The Grail is but a legend—" Percival began, but Arthur cut him off.

"The Grail is real. It is—" the king seemed to be searching for the right

words. "It is the source of all knowledge. To one who knows its secret, it

brings immortality. It is beyond anything you have experienced, what any man

has experienced."

A glimmer of hope came alive in the despair that had shadowed Percival's

eyes since removing Arthur from the field of battle. "Where is this Grail, my

Lord? Where should I search?"

"That you must discover on your own. It is spoken of in many lands and has

traveled far—here and there— over the years. But trust me, it does exist. It

will be well guarded. And if you find it—" Arthur paused.

"Yes, my Lord?"

"If you find it, you must not touch it. You must guard it as you have

guarded me. Will you do that for me?"

"I do not want to abandon you, my Lord."

"You will not be abandoning me. I go to a better place. Do as I have

ordered."

Slowly and reluctantly, Percival stood, bent over, his hand still in the

king's. "I will begin the quest you have commanded me to pursue."

Arthur tightened his grip. "My knight, there is something you must remember

in your quest."

"Yes, Lord?"

"You can trust no one. Deception has always swirled about the Grail. Be

careful." He released Percival. "Go now! I order you to go!"

Percival leaned farther over and lightly kissed his king's forehead, then

stood and departed.

Arthur was alone on the top of the Tor. Only then did he open his eyes once

more. He could hear yells from the eastern slope—Mordred's mercenaries and

mental slaves climbed the steep hillside, but his eyes remained focused at the

sky above, waiting.

A metallic, golden orb three feet in diameter darted out of the clouds and

came to an abrupt halt, hovering ten feet above Arthur. It stayed there for a

few seconds, then without a sound, sped to the east. There were flashes of

light in that direction, screams of surprise and terror, then silence from the

rebel warriors. Arthur was now the only one alive on the Tor.

The orb came back and hovered directly overhead. Arthur looked past it,

waiting, holding on to life. Finally, a silver disk, thirty feet wide, flat on

the bottom, the upper side sloping to a rounded top, floated silently out of

the clouds.

The disk touched down on the Tor's summit next to the abbey. A hatch on the

top opened and two tall figures climbed out. They made their way down the

sloping side. The shape inside their one-piece white suits indicated they were

female, yet their eyes were not human, but the same red Brynn had revealed in

Arthur's.

They walked to where the king lay, one standing on either side. They pulled

back their hoods, revealing fiery red hair cut tight against their skulls.

Their skin was pale, ice-white, unblemished.

"Where is the key?" one asked in a low-pitched voice.

"A Watcher took it," Arthur said. "I gave it to him. We must hide it to

restore the truce."

"Are you sure, Artad's Shadow?" one of the women asked. "We can search for

it. The Watchers cannot be trusted. Merlin was one of their order."

"I am sure," Arthur cut her off. "It is the way I want it to be. Merlin, no

matter what evil he stirred up, was trying to do a good thing. Have you heard

of the Grail's fate?"

"Mordred's mercenaries had it, but they didn't know what it was. A Watcher

in the area took it. We can take the Grail from him."

"No."

The two creatures exchanged glances.

"The truce must be restored," Arthur continued. "It is not time yet." Arthur

slumped back, satisfied that at least that part of what Brynn had told him was

true. He knew he could not tell them of the quest he had given Percival. It

was the only thing he could think of to get his favorite knight off the Tor.

If Percival had been here when the others arrived, he would have suffered the

same fate as Mordred's men. Arthur knew his knight

would never track down the Grail, but it gave the man a purpose and he had

found that such a quest worked well with men like that.

"And Aspasia's Shadow?" Arthur asked.

"Mordred too dies in this life, but Guides are there to pass Aspasia's

spirit on."

A spasm of pain passed through Arthur's body. "Let's be done with it then. I

am very tired. Remember, I am only a shadow also."

The two women looked at each other once more, red eyes meeting, then the

first nodded and spoke. "The spirit of Artad must move on."

"The spirit of Artad must pass on," the second said.

Arthur nodded. "My spirit must pass on."

The second woman knelt beside him, a short black blade in her hand. It

easily sliced through the dented armor on Arthur's chest with one smooth

stroke, revealing a padded shirt underneath. With a deft flick of the knife,

the cloth parted, revealing his chest. Lying on the flesh was a gold medallion

shaped like two arms extended upward in worship with no body. She cut through

the thin chain holding the medallion and held it up for the other woman—and

Arthur—to see.

"We take your spirit, the spirit of Artad," she said to Arthur.

The king nodded weakly. "The spirit of Artad passes." His head bowed down on

his chest, his lips moved, but no sound emerged.

"Are you ready to finish the shell that sustained this life?" she asked.

Arthur closed his eyes. "I am ready."

"Is there anything since the last time you merged with the ka that you need

to tell us?"

Arthur shook his head, knowing that remaining silent when his spirit passed

on would leave no memory of

Percival's quest, which would guard the knight for the rest of his life. It

was his last thought.

The black blade slammed down into his exposed chest, piercing his heart. The

body spasmed once, then was still. The woman stood and placed the blade back

in its sheath.

The first woman extended a gloved hand, fist clenched, over the body. The

fingers moved, as if crushing something held in it. She spread her fingers and

small black droplets the size of grains of sand fell onto the king, hitting

flesh, armor, and cloth. Where it fell on the latter two, they moved swiftly

across the surface until they reached flesh. Where they touched skin, they

consumed, boring through and devouring flesh, bone, muscle, everything

organic. Within ten seconds nothing was left of the king but his armor and

clothes.

With the ceremony complete, the two women swiftly retraced their steps to

the craft they had arrived on. It lifted and swiftly accelerated away,

disappearing into the storm clouds.

The heavens finally let loose with rain, announcing its arrival with a

cacophonous barrage of thunder, lightning playing across the top of the Tor. A

large bolt struck the high tower of the Abbey, shattering stone and mortar,

spraying debris over the remains of the king.

THE GIZA PLATEAU, EGYPT

Deep under the Giza Plateau, Lisa Duncan placed her hands on the lid of the

Ark of the Covenant. A surge ran through her body, a feeling of power. A red

glow suffused both of the cherubim-sphinxes on either end of the Ark and

extended over the lid, encompassing her.

She could no longer hear those outside the veil that surrounded the Ark. Her

world was the Ark: the gold under her fingers. She grabbed the edge of the

lid. She felt suspended in time, beyond the reach of everything she had ever

known. She lifted the cover. A golden glow blazed out, overpowering the red as

the lid went up. It locked in place, revealing the chamber inside.

Of the seven wonders of the ancient world, only one remains in the modern

world. Located on the Giza Plateau, southwest of Cairo, stand the three large

pyramids of the Pharaohs Khufu, Khafre, and Menkaure; they are symbolically

guarded by the Great Sphinx, whose stone visage peers to the east, into the

rising sun and over the Nile River, the lifeline of Egypt through time

immemorial.

All four structures have been weathered and battered by time: the

hand-smoothed limestone facing of the three great pyramids had long ago been

looted for building materials, diminishing some of their majesty,

but until the building of the Eiffel Tower, they had held reign for millennia

as the tallest man-made objects on the planet.

As one comes upon them from the Nile Road, the middle pyramid of Khafre

appears to be the largest, but only because it was built on higher ground on

the Giza Plateau. The Pharaoh Khufu, more popularly known as Cheops, was

historically credited with building the greatest pyramid, farthest to the

northeast. Over four hundred and eighty feet tall and covering eighty acres,

it is still the largest stone building in the world. The smallest of the three

is that of Menkaure, measuring over two hundred feet in altitude.

The sides of all three are perfectly aligned with the four cardinal

directions from northeast to southwest, largest to smallest. The Great Sphinx

lies at the foot of the middle pyramid—far enough to the east to also be out

in front of the Great Pyramid, behind the Sphinx's left shoulder.

As long as men have stood on the plateau, dwarfed by the immense structures,

they have been one of the greatest mysteries of the ages. Egyptologists had

come up with dates and origins for the three pyramids and the Sphinx, but the

data, upon close examination, was woe-

fully incomplete. Not a single mummy was found in any of the pyramids, casting

doubt on the age-old theory they were large mausoleums. Up until recently,

every chamber discovered was empty. Even more puzzling was the distinct lack

of any documentation concerning the architectural development of the pyramids

or Sphinx. Not even among the numerous stone and papyrus documents from the

various Egyptian dynasties.

The recent revelation that aliens—the Airlia—had visited Earth in the

distant past, and never left, had thrown the accepted version of human history

into disarray, including the reason why the pyramids and Sphinx were built.

Peter Nabinger, one of the original members of the team that had penetrated

the secret of Area 51, had come up with his own explanation of the pyramids'

purpose before his death in China: when sheathed in the original smooth

limestone their radar signature had been immense, able to be picked up far out

into space. Thus, he reasoned, they were a beacon, designed to bring a

spaceship close. That was stage one, the attention-getter. Then Nabinger had

found stage two, the accompanying message written on the face of the Earth in

the form of the Great Wall of China itself, spelling out the Airlia High Rune

word for HELP.

Unfortunately, Nabinger had not lived long enough to unravel the riddle of

the Sphinx. With the aid of another archaeologist, Professor Joseph Mualama

from the University of Tanzania, Lisa Duncan had discovered that the Sphinx

was a surface marker for what lay buried deep beneath, where she had just

opened the lid of the Ark of the Covenant.

Almost a half-mile directly below the Great Sphinx was a cavern, just short

of a half-mile in diameter with curved walls. Light came from a bright orb on

the ceiling, a mini-sun that had burned for millennia ever since

the object that rested in the center of the floor was first hidden.

Here lay a replica of the Great Sphinx. Its skin, however, was not made of

stone, but a flawless black metal that absorbed the light. The head was

larger, the nose not shot off like its cousin on the surface. The eyes of the

Black Sphinx were blood red with elongated red irises that glowed from some

inner power.

The Sphinx's paws extended almost sixty feet in front of the head, which

rose seventy feet above the floor of the cavern. The body stretched one

hundred and eighty feet back, making the entire object almost three hundred

feet long. Between the paws, just under the chin, stood a statue over nine

feet tall, shaped like a man, but with subtle differences—the body was too

short proportionally, the limbs too long. The largest difference was the head,

with polished white skin, ears with long lobes that ended just above the

shoulders, and two gleaming red eyes set in the long narrow face. The stone

that covered the top of the head—imitating hair— was also red.

In front of the statue was a group of soldiers armed with the latest weapons

awaiting further orders. In the corridor that led from below the statue to the

chamber inside of the Black Sphinx stood their leader, known to Middle Eastern

intelligence agencies as the terrorist Al-Iblis. What he sought, Lisa Duncan

had in her hands.

Two bodies lay on the floor near him. Both had borne the name Kaji, father

and son. Both had been Watchers, entrusted with the secret the Black Sphinx

held. Facing Al-Iblis stood Professor Joseph Mualama, the archaeologist who

had picked up the torch passed on by Nabinger, trying to make sense of the

ancient mysteries and legends. It was from his searching on the path of the

famous explorer Sir Richard Francis Burton,

that he had been able to lead Duncan to the Great Sphinx. From there the elder

Kaji had led them to the Black Sphinx before being killed along with his son

by Al-Iblis, ending the line of their family that had watched the Giza Plateau

for millennia.

Al-Iblis turned as one of his men ran up to him rattling off something in

Arabic about incoming helicopters. Barking commands, Al-Iblis led his soldiers

toward the tunnel leading to the surface, dragging Mualama along with them.

Lisa Duncan's face reflected the glow coming from inside the Ark. Resting on a

cradle of black metal lay a golden hourglass figure, eighteen inches high by

eight wide at each end. The middle was an inch wide. It was a thing told of in

tales and legend:

The Grail.

Immediately Duncan saw where the legend that the Grail was a cup came from,

but beyond its form, both ends appeared to be solid. She reached in, surprised

at how steady her hands were, and picked it up. The Grail was heavy, as if

solid.

She sat down cross-legged on the floor next to the Ark, and placed the Grail

in front of her. She simply stared at it for several minutes. She could see

why so many legends had grown up around the object. The surface was

translucent, emitting a slight golden glow. It seemed to be made of the same

material as the guardian computer. There was a strong sense of power emanating

from it.

She held her hand out, six inches over the flat top. Her skin tingled. She

lowered her hand until it touched the metal and held it there for several

seconds. She

jerked it back as if scalded as the surface shimmered brightly for a second.

The top irised, revealing a six-inch-wide opening. Cautiously, Duncan leaned

forward and peered down into it.

Four inches into the Grail was a small, perfectly round depression, about an

inch and a half in diameter. Duncan frowned, then, very slowly, she dipped the

forefinger of her right hand into the opening. The tingling sensation grew

stronger as she touched the depression, but nothing else happened.

She pulled her finger out of the Grail. After ten seconds, the opening

closed. Duncan thought for a while, then turned the Grail over. She touched

the flat side that was now up and wasn't surprised when it also irised open,

revealing another small depression, identical to the first one.

Something went in those depressions. But what? Without conscious thought,

her hands strayed to the two empty pockets on the essen she wore. Where the

urim and thummin stones were supposed to be. The pockets were only about two

inches wide and three inches deep, just big enough for stones an inch and a

half in diameter.

Lost in the Grail, what she didn't see right away were the fine black wires

clipped into the lid of the Ark that ended in what appeared to be tiny carved

rose petals.

AIRSPACE, MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Mike Turcotte slapped the back of the magazine of 9mm bullets against his

kneecap, relishing the jolt of pain and the sound of the rounds settling tight

against the metal casing. He did it once more, even harder. He slid the

magazine into the well of the MP-5 sub-

machine gun and let the bolt slide forward, chambering a round. He felt

emotionally detached from the members of the Special Forces A-Team gathered

around him, from the Russian agent Yakov, to the Chinese archaeologist Che Lu,

to every person inside the alien-made bouncer speeding through the air toward

Egypt.

Weapon ready, he let it hang from his shoulder on the sling. Then he paused,

taking a deep breath. Turcotte stretched his right hand out in front, opening

the palm, stretching the scar tissue.

"Pain is too emotional," Yakov said.

Turcotte was startled. "What?"

Yakov shook his head and didn't repeat the statement, and another voice

filled the void.

"Sir, the Egyptians are refusing permission to enter their airspace."

Captain Billam had been monitoring the radio since they departed Mongolia.

"Screw them," Turcotte said as he clenched his hand into a fist. "Any word

from Area 51 on Duncan's exact location?"

"Negative," Billam replied. "Last word was the Giza Plateau. Nothing since.

But we do have an intelligence report that the entire plateau has been sealed

off by the Egyptian military."

Yakov placed a large hand on Turcotte's shoulder. "My friend, I do not think

this is a time we should— how do you say?—'Shoot first and ask questions

later.' We do not know exactly where your Doctor Duncan is. We may be able to

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Robert Doherty - Area 51 - The Grail

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