mountains.
Exhausted and dirty, West trudged back down into the main cabin. Head down in thought, he almost walked straight past Lily, curled up in the darkness under the stairs, sobbing quietly.
West crouched down beside her and with a gentleness that defied his battered state, brushed away her tears. 'Hey, kiddo.'
'They . . . they just
'I know.'
'Why'd they have to do that? He never hurt any of them.'
'No, he didn't,' West said. 'But what we're doing here has made some big countries very angry—because they're afraid of losing their power. That's why they killed Noddy.' He tousled her hair as he stood to go. 'Hey. I'll miss him, too.'
Tired, sore and himself saddened by the loss of Noddy, West retired to his small bunkroom in the aft section of the plane.
He collapsed into his bunk and no sooner had his head hit the pillow than he was asleep.
He slept deeply, his dreams filled with vivid visions—of booby-trapped chambers, stone altars, chants and screams, waterfalls of lava, and of himself running frantically through it all.
The interesting thing was, these dreams weren't the product of West's imagination.
They had actually happened, ten years previously . . .
INSIDE THE KANYAMAIMAGA 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
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.
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.
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,
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:
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.
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
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!
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
