The Biofab War
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A light scattering of fire responded. They ran after the others. The rock swung silently shut. They found Bob busily examining the altar. Is there another way out? Now all we have to do is get out alive. We can credit, given the mass of conventionally ignored evidence lying about the New World, that there was a great deal of preColumbian exploration of the Americas, stretching from the ancient Mediterraneans forward to the Celts at about the time of Caesar.
The Celts, by the way, were superb mariners. From these peoples came the various Native American tribes. Such a technology, such an artful melding of different cultures, bespeaks a sophisticated guiding force, a mentor, stretching forth its hand through the centuries. Who built this place and why? How many different feet have trod here? And, more pressing, why is Langston so determined to keep it secret? Piltdown Man, the Hitler diaries, an elaborate hoax?
Bob shook his head. Also—it feels old. The heavy thud of explosions rocked their sanctuary, sending them diving to the hard floor amidst a shower of falling rock. There was no winking green light. They somberly rejoined Bob. Undeterred by the prospect of a lingering death, he was still exploring the altar by the fading beam of his light.
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A gleaming alloy ladder hung to the side of the altar well, the shaft plunging into the dark beyond the range of their lights. Greg, Zahava and Bob sat behind him in the small diner, sipping coffee. We found ourselves on the weather side of Goose Hill, just above the breakwater. Bob marked the spot with his walking stick. We followed the beach several miles to South Dunsmore—a delight on a cold night with the tide running high.
Lay low till then. Taking a chance that Tuckman was still in, Sutherland dialed his office. Despite the hour, the Director was there, answering his own phone. Are we clear? Call me from the Cape. A diffuse golden glow bathed the corridor. They stood before the door, an oval slab of metal flush with the wall. Greg flashed his light expectantly at the usual place. A refined voice filled the corridor. The door closed silently behind them. Several compact consoles occupied the half of the room nearest the door, their control panels flickering to life.
She spat an Arabic curse as the gun vanished. A high-pitched whine filled the room, rising to mind-searing intensity. Futilely clapping their hands over their ears, they dropped to the floor, writhing in agony, eyes bulging, screaming unheard into the merciless pitch. Abruptly, the killing noise stopped. The room was empty. The lights dimmed out as the centuries resumed their undisturbed passage. Boarding the sleek private jet, Sutherland exchanged nods with his three team members: Marsh and Johnson were CIA; Tim Flannigan, nose buried in a sports magazine, was FBI Liaison and the only one with arrest authority.
The Biofab War
Going to brief the pilot, Sutherland spotted an unfamiliar man sitting away from the others. Something about him tugged at his memory—thin, almost ascetic features, high forehead, thinning blond hair. Looks like a Jesuit, he thought. As he approached, the stranger glanced up, recognition in his cool gray eyes.
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Let me introduce our guest. The stranger rose, stepping into the aisle. The Director reached past Bakunin, picking up a handset. They believed the cave to be a Resistance staging area. Too late, they discovered their mistake. By particle beam weapons. An analyst of Soviet military technology, Frank Marsh knew of the long-term Russian research in laser and particle beams. The FSB officer cleared his throat. Before he could ask what other sites, Tuckman continued.
It sketched the world as we knew it, except. It was impregnated into a thin, pliable, highly durable polymer that continues to defy analysis.
One of the marks is on the south coast of France. Proceeding logically, we began the task of finding the other sites.
As the French site was underground, we assumed the others would be. But like the French site, whatever had been there was destroyed. Just fused lumps of metal congealed on the floor.
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A small place, really, just a few tunnels hollowed out of bedrock, a cleverly concealed entrance. Analysis of the metal showed the presence of unknown alloys.
He paused, sipping his coffee. The Soviets got their map the same time we did. It was a copy, sold them by the same ex-SS officer. Shortly after that, the Russians quickly found a site near Batumi, on the Black Sea. They lost their team, too. Everyone was very pissed.