wasn’t balanced for throwing. The butt end hit the bridge of the man’s nose, breaking the delicate bones. As he reeled back roaring in pain, Booker kicked at the machine gun and grunted when it swung freely. To get the proper angle he had to jump over the rail and hang off the side of the boat. His finger found the trigger as a third guard appeared at the door. Booker was ahead of schedule by eleven seconds but there was no help for that now. He pulled the trigger and the big gun came alive in his hands, empty brass casings arcing into the night. The heavy slugs blew the guard back through the doorway, ripped the door off its hinges, and shredded the cheap wood superstructure.
Unable to see where the other gunman was inside the houseboat, Booker let go of the railing and dangled by his grip on the machine gun. Even with the superior firepower, he knew he was too exposed to counterfire from inside the boat or an astute sniper on shore. He cross-drew the Beretta pistol Ahmad had given him and aimed at the fifty-caliber’s ratcheting bolt. Before he pulled the trigger a pair of guns opened up from inside the cabin. There had been more men than Booker had seen. With bullets whizzing by, Book fired five rapid shots. The machine gun fell silent as the bolt jammed in the ruined receiver. The plan had been to use the weapon to cover Ahmad’s assault but he had to settle for denying Poli’s men from using it themselves. He took a deep breath as he dropped off the boat and began swimming away from the craft a good five feet under the surface so he would create no wake.
As soon as he heard the machine gun out on the houseboat bellowing its deadly tattoo, Mercer started running boldly across the camp. He wasn’t dressed exactly like the Arab fighters but he hoped the kaffiyeh would give him anonymity. The men had instantly ended their reverie and reached for their weapons, their gaze directed at the dark houseboat.
Mercer was halfway to the sheltered hole they’d dug down to the tunnel when Ibriham Ahmad’s Janissaries engaged. Two of them appeared on the hill above the encampment as if defying the Qaida terrorists. They took down several of the confused men before anyone even saw they were there.
In seconds thirty AK-47s roared as one and the crest of the hill disappeared in a hail of gunfire and kicked up dirt. Mercer could only trust Ahmad’s men as they caught the Arab fighters in a withering crossfire. The ground exploded at his feet as bullets flew in every direction. He had another thirty yards to go when the officers began to organize their men behind natural cover positions. Their return fire became more disciplined and Mercer could only detect three of Ahmad’s men still in the fight. So far no one had paid him any attention but there were two men guarding the excavation who hadn’t left their posts. They stiffened as Mercer came closer.
He tried to shield his face but the wary men started to raise their weapons. Mercer kept on running, gesturing wildly and shouting gibberish. His ruse worked to a point. Neither man fired, but neither did they lower their assault rifles. Mercer was five feet away from them when he staggered. As he pretended to trip he swung the barrel of his HK just enough to put a round through one of the guards’ chests. The other man reacted a fraction slow and Mercer rammed into him with all his strength.
The two of them crashed to the ground just at the edge of the pit, with their guns sandwiched between them. Their faces were inches apart. Mercer could see the mad fanaticism in the other man’s eyes, like the glassy stare of a fever patient. The terrorist shouted something about Allah and fired his AK.
The heat as the gun discharged seared the flesh of Mercer’s stomach and the blood that pooled between them was as viscous as oil. The guard’s mouth split into a filthy smile but then his expression changed. Mercer nimbly pushed himself off the terrorist. His clothing was sodden with blood but apart from the burned skin he was unharmed. The guard looked down the length of his body and saw the barrel of his assault rifle pointing up into his own chest. In seconds the murderous light faded from his eyes. In an attempt to kill them both he’d only managed to commit suicide.
“You can’t be a martyr if you don’t kill your enemy,” Mercer said and heaved himself over the precipice into the tunnel.
He’d been prepared to hit the water because he’d seen Poli bring dive equipment, but he nearly impaled himself on the scuba gear dangling from the rope. The sound of the raging gun battle was muted by the stonework. Even when he heard a grenade explode, it was little more than the sound of distant thunder.
With no light to guide him, Mercer started up the long tunnel, keeping the HK over his head. After twenty feet he couldn’t hear the fighting at all, which meant Poli and Salibi didn’t know about the assault, preserving his element of surprise.
He’d gone fifty yards when he tripped over a set of steps hidden under the water. As he climbed, he became aware of light ahead, a ghost’s glow as feeble as a guttering candle. His hands unconsciously tightened on his rifle.
He left the water completely at the top of the stairs and saw that the tunnel turned ninety degrees. Mercer approached cautiously, peering around the corner with his cheek almost touching the floor.
This had to have been as much wire as Poli had brought, because the powerful flood lamp sat in the middle of a vast chamber. The ceiling lofted thirty feet over Mercer’s head, supported by tight ranks of sandstone columns fashioned in the shape of palm trees. It was typical Ancient Egyptian architecture. They knew they didn’t need that many supports for the ceiling, but the design was to depict a dense and bountiful forest. The sides of the room were hidden in shadow but the parts close enough for Mercer to see were covered in hieroglyphs.
Straining to hear anything, Mercer almost laughed aloud when he thought the immense space was as silent as a tomb.
He slid into the chamber, keeping close to the walls. He had passed twenty columns when he spotted something glinting in the darkness. Mercer forgot himself for a moment as he stared at the object. It was a marble statue of a man holding a short sword in his right hand. In the other was a ball of rope that had been sliced in two. Mercer realized this was Alexander the Great after he had cut the impossible to untie Gordian Knot, fulfilling the prophecy that he would one day rule Asia.
He continued on. On the opposite wall from where he’d entered was another open portal. Wavering light spilled from the next room of the tomb complex.
The room was smaller than the first, the ceiling a bit lower, and there weren’t as many columns. Flames danced atop several low bronze braziers. The oil that Poli had poured from the earthen amphorae could still burn after twenty centuries. As stunned as Mercer had been by the statue, this room revealed something even more remarkable. He immediately thought of Chester Bowie and his crazy ideas.
There were eight dioramas set up in the room, each one depicting a different monster from mythology. A towering, man-shaped giant had a rib cage made of some large animal, a horse or cow, but its head Mercer realized was the pelvic bone of a creature he wasn’t familiar with, a prehistoric cave bear or maybe some kind of giant sloth. He recognized the skeleton of a griffin, a fabled creature with the body of a lion and the head of an eagle. The body was that of a large extinct cat, but its eagle head was the armored frill of a triceratops. Beyond it Alexander’s artisans had created a three-headed snake. The heads were from some kind of dinosaur, like a raptor or another flesh eater. The teeth were four inches long.
Everything was held together with bronze braces and wire, as expertly assembled as anything in a natural history museum today.
Bowie had been right that the creatures out of mythology were the ancients’ way of making sense of the bones they’d discovered of animals that had long ago gone extinct. They didn’t know what parts fit with what so they made it up as they went along, producing fantastical creations and the stories to go along with them.
Mercer wasn’t sure what impressed him more-the imagination it took to put together such marvelous creatures or the fact that an obscure professor from New Jersey had figured out the truth.
There came a sudden jolt and bits of sand rained from the ceiling. Mercer shook his head to bring himself back to reality. Something massive had exploded on the surface and for a moment he was sure Cali had arrived, only to have the Riva blown out of the water by an RPG. But the explosion had been much closer, and for it to shake the ground it couldn’t have occurred on the water. He heard voices from the next chamber. He moved behind one of the dioramas, a massive skeleton with elephant tusks for ribs.
Seconds later a terrorist with a thick beard hurried past carrying a flashlight, heading for the exit tunnel. Mercer waited in the shadows for him to return. He came back a minute later, sprinting through the gallery and into the next room, shouting incoherent Arabic as he ran.
“In English!” Mercer heard Poli roar.
Mercer could barely hear the words. “Someone has collapsed the tunnel. We are trapped.”
