The Eye of God Page 6

  “To a key specific location.” Rachel could not hold back the distrust in her voice. “That’s where Father Josip wants you to meet him?”

  “So it would appear.”

  Rachel frowned. She didn’t want her uncle traipsing to parts unknown based on some cryptic note of an errant priest who had vanished nearly a decade ago.

  Vigor set the skull back down. “I’m going to set out at daybreak. Catch the earliest flight out to Kazakhstan.”

  Rachel balked at this, but she knew from long experience that she’d never convince him otherwise. She settled on a compromise. “Not without me, you’re not. And I’ve got plenty of vacation time accrued. So you have no excuse.”

  He smiled. “I had hoped you’d say that. In fact, I wonder if we shouldn’t contact Director Crowe to see if he could offer us additional field support.”

  “You want to involve Sigma Force? All because of something written on a skull back in the thirteenth century, some ancient prophecy of doom.”

  She rolled her eyes at such a thought. She and her uncle had dealings in the past with Sigma, and she certainly would not object to an excuse to see Commander Gray Pierce again. The two had an off-again, on-again relationship over the years that had settled into a mutual friendship. Sometimes with benefits. But both knew such a long-distance relationship would never last. Still . . . she gave it a moment’s more thought, then dismissed it. Sigma’s team of scientific and military experts didn’t need to be bothered with a minor matter such as this.

  “I think we could benefit from their expertise,” Vigor pressed. “Besides, I sense we’re running short on time.”

  As if proving this, a shatter of glass sounded. Glass cascaded into the office. An object ricocheted off the stone edge of the narrow window and rebounded to the room’s far side.

  Vigor flinched from the sudden noise. Rachel’s training had her already moving. She scooped her uncle around the waist and rolled him away from the window, toward the opposite side of the room.

  She drove her uncle to the floor, sheltering him behind the desk with her body—as the grenade exploded with a concussive blast of fire and smoke.

  10:18 A.M. PST

  Airborne over California

  The sprawl of Los Angeles vanished below the wings of the jet as it began its cross-country flight to D.C. Painter had asked the pilot to spare no fuel, to push the Bombardier Global 5000 to its severe limits. The luxury of the richly appointed interior, with its full bar and leather seating groups, belied the jet’s state-of-the-art engines, which could reach an upper speed of 590 mph.

  Painter intended to test the manufacturer’s claims during this flight, especially with the Eastern Seaboard set to burn in less than four days.

  Whether true or not, General Metcalf had requested he set aside such mysteries for now and tasked him with a more practical concern: the crashed IoG-1 satellite. Those orders still rang in his ears.

  Find the wreckage of the satellite. That remains your primary objective. The technicians will deal with the image taken by the satellite. And as a precaution, I’ll begin a risk assessment in regards to pending threats to the East Coast.

  They each had their roles to play.

  The plane banked as it headed out of Los Angeles airspace. The comet shone in the blue sky, luminous enough to see during the day. At night, the tail stretched far across the stars, so bright that one could discern the wavering scintillation of its tail, making it appear a living thing. It was expected to blaze up there for almost a month as the comet made a slow pass by the earth.

  Slipping into the leather seat next to him, she noted his attention. The only other passenger aboard the jet, she tinkled a glass of cola in one hand.

  Jada had shared with Metcalf her theories of time skipping a beat due to a wrinkle in space-time. Her theory offered an explanation for the errant shadows discovered in the photo, shadows that suggested the image might be a glimpse of ninety hours into the future.

  “I don’t think we convinced the general,” Painter said, turning to her.

  “And I’m not sure I’m convinced either,” Jada added.

  This surprised him—and it must have shown on his face.

  “There are so many variables in play here,” she explained, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. “As I mentioned before, the image could be a peek into an alternate future, not necessarily ours. I refuse to believe that the future is written in stone. In fact, quantum physics defies such linear paths to time. Just the act of observation can change fate, like with Schrödinger’s cat.”

  “And that applies how?”

  “Well, take that cat. It’s a classic example of the spookiness of quantum mechanics. In that thought experiment, a cat is put in a box with a poison pellet, one that has an equal chance of killing the cat or not. While the box is closed, the cat is considered to be in a suspended state—both alive and dead. It’s only after you open the box and check on the cat that its fate is truly settled one way or the other. Some theorize that when the box is opened, the universe splits into two. In one universe, the cat’s alive. In the other, he’s dead.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the same situation may be involved with the photo taken by the satellite as space-time wrinkled around it. In one universe, the world burns. In the other, it doesn’t.”

  “So we have a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. For some reason, with the fate of mankind hanging in the balance, I’m not particularly happy with those odds.”

  “Yet the flow of time gets even murkier from there. Just the fact that the satellite took the picture and we all saw it is an act of observation. What we do from here can change fate—but we don’t know if our actions will make that doomsday more likely to happen or less.”

  “It sounds as if—for the next four days—we’re all like Schrödinger’s cat in the box, trapped in that suspended state between survival and death.”

  She nodded, not looking any happier than he did.

  “So we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”

  She shrugged. “That pretty much sums up quantum physics.”

  “So then what do you suggest we do?”

  “We find that satellite. That’s the most important agenda.”

  “You sound like General Metcalf.”

  “He’s right. All my theories are just conjecture. But by analyzing the wreckage, I may have something more concrete to offer.” She shifted in her seat to more fully face him. “I know you were not keen on me joining the team headed to Mongolia to search for the wreckage, but no one knows more about that satellite than I do. Without someone intimately knowledgeable on hand, valuable data could be lost—or worse.”

  “What do you mean by worse?”

  She sighed heavily. “I told you how that influx of dark energy likely wrinkled space-time, a wrinkle much deeper than any estimates projected. But my preliminary calculations warn of a larger danger.”

  “What danger?”

  “There is a slim possibility that we might’ve created a kink in space-time, something semipermanent, capable of lasting for a period of time—and that the kink could still be entangled at the quantum level with the remains of that satellite.”

  “Entangled?”

  “Such an event occurs when two objects interact for a period of time, come to share quantum states, then become separated. In certain instances, their quantum states can remain linked, where a change in the quantum status in one changes in the other instantly. Even over vast distances.”

  “That seems to defy logic.”

  “And violates the speed of light. In fact, it kind of freaked Einstein out. He called this effect spukhafte Fernwirkung, or spooky action at a distance. Yet, not only has this phenomenon been demonstrated in labs at the subatomic level, but a group of Chinese researchers recently accomplished the same with a pair of diamonds visible to the naked eye. All it takes is enough energy.”

  “Something like a blast of dark energy.”

  “Exact
ly. If there is a kink in the curvature of space-time around the earth, and if its quantum state became entangled with the satellite, any mishandling of the crash debris could result in that kink ripping a hole from space to the ground.”

  “And that would not be good.”

  “Not if you like life on this planet.”

  “You make a compelling case, Dr. Shaw.”

  Before he could make a final comment, his satellite phone rang. Checking the screen, he saw the incoming call was from Sigma command in D.C. It was Captain Kathryn Bryant, his second-in-command. Kat’s specialty was in intelligence-gathering services for Sigma, but he had tasked her with the preliminary logistics in putting a search team together.

  Painter had spoken to her briefly earlier. The tentative plan had been to have Commander Pierce’s group proceed directly from China to Ulan Bator, the capital of Mongolia, where his group would rendezvous with a two-man team sent from Washington.

  Kat had suggested keeping the expedition small, as the region where the satellite crashed was in Mongolia’s Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area, a region of the country where access was highly restricted, especially to foreigners, due to preservation efforts—both natural and historical. The region was also considered to be sacred to the people of Mongolia. Any misstep and the team could be booted out of there.

  As a consequence, logistical details were still being worked out.

  Painter hoped for better news from Kat as he answered the phone.

  Her first words quickly quashed that hope.

  “Director, we have another problem.”

  Of course, we do . . .

  Kat continued, “I just heard word through the intelligence channels of an attack in Italy. Details are still sketchy, but apparently someone shot a rocket-propelled grenade into the university offices of Monsignor Verona.”

  “Vigor? Is he okay?”

  “He is. In fact, I’ve got him queued up on the line for a conference call with you. He’s still a little shaken up, but his niece was present during the attack and got them both out safely. He insisted on talking to you—and I think you might want to hear him out.”

  Painter had plenty on his plate, but he owed the monsignor this courtesy. “Put him on.”

  Kat made the connections and the familiar tenor voice of Monsignor Verona came onto the line.

  “Director Crowe, grazie.” Vigor sounded surprisingly calm considering what had just transpired, but he was a resilient old bird. “I know you are busy, but I have a grave concern that I wanted to bring to your attention.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “To be blunt, I believe the world is coming to a major crisis point.”

  Painter felt an icy chill begin to develop. “Why do you say that?”

  The monsignor went on to explain about a mysterious package from a dead archaeological colleague: a skull and a book bound in human skin. Vigor talked about Hungarian witches, Talmudic magical relics, and an inscription begging for salvation.

  As the story continued, the chill slowly seeped away. Relief set in. This had nothing to do with what Painter had witnessed at the space center.

  Vigor continued, “After the attack, I suspect now why my colleague, Father Josip, went into hiding. Whatever he is pursuing has clearly drawn the attention of a violent group, someone who seeks to keep his knowledge from reaching the world. He has asked for me to join him in Central Asia, near the Aral Sea. I was hoping you’d be able to offer some field support—especially as time is running short.”

  Painter wished he had the resources to help, but considering what he faced, he couldn’t justify such a diversion of manpower. “I’m sorry—”

  Kat interrupted, still on the conference call. “Monsignor Vigor, I think you should tell Director Crowe why you believe time is running short.”

  “Mi dispiace,” he apologized. “I thought I already had, but I realize now I only told you, Captain Bryant, not the director.”

  “Tell me what?” Painter asked.

  “The inscription on the skull, the one asking for salvation . . . it was a plea against the world ending.”

  “You mentioned that already.”

  “Yes, but I failed to mention when the world was prophesied to end.”

  Painter felt that chill creep back up his spine. “Let me guess,” he said. “In four days.”

  “Sì,” Vigor replied, surprised. “But how did you know that?”

  For the moment, Painter refrained from explaining. He had Kat put Vigor back on hold, while he and his second-in-command talked in private.

  “What do you think?” he asked Kat.

  “I find it intriguing that such a relic should match the doomsday time frame reported by the Space and Missile Systems Center.”

  Apparently Kat had already learned about that strange bit of news from out west. He shouldn’t have been surprised. That was her field of expertise, gathering intelligence. Nothing escaped her notice.

  “But is it a mere coincidence?” Painter asked. “Do we divert resources toward what may be just an archaeological wild-goose chase?”

  “In this case, I’m interested enough to say yes. First, it wouldn’t necessarily be that much of a diversion. The coordinates supplied by Monsignor Verona are in Central Asia and happen to be along the route from D.C. to Mongolia. It would be easy enough for our U.S.-based team to make a short stop at the Aral Sea to investigate this mystery. It wouldn’t set the timetable back significantly. Besides, I still need to get resources air-dropped out to Mongolia. In the meantime, we can send a second team, one that’s already closer, in advance for an initial reconnaissance of the area.”

  “You mean Gray, Kowalski, and Seichan.”

  She nodded. “It’s only a few hours from Hong Kong to Ulan Bator, the capital city of Mongolia.”

  “It sounds like you’ve thought this all out. But I should let you know, there may be a third member of the U.S. team.” He glanced over to Jada. “A civilian who has convinced me her expertise may be needed.”

  “Not a problem. I value Dr. Shaw’s help.”

  He smiled. As usual, Kat had read his mind.

  “Also,” she said, “there is another advantage in making this detour. By working with the monsignor and his mysterious colleague, it offers us the perfect cover story for our search into the restricted Khan Khentii Strictly Protected Area.”

  “Of course,” Painter said, nodding, pleased at her resourcefulness. “They can pose as an archaeological team.”

  “Exactly. Especially if the monsignor would be willing to venture to Mongolia with us—as it seems we have a common goal.”

  Saving the world . . .

  “Then let’s get things rolling,” Painter said. “Put a call in to Gray and get his team moving.”

  Kat sighed, her irritation plain. “I would if I could reach him . . .”

  4

  November 18, 2:02 A.M. CST

  Macau, People’s Republic of China

  The Casino Lisboa had become ground zero for World War III. Or at least it sounded that way to Gray from inside the barricaded VIP room. The initial spats of suppressed gunfire had escalated into a full-out firefight in the hallway.

  More blasts echoed in the distance.

  Inside the room, Gray crouched behind their makeshift barricade in front of the door. With Kowalski’s help, he’d manhandled the upended baccarat table and blocked the only way inside. Seichan had slid one of the red-silk sofas to further brace their fortification. The only other way out was the narrow window, but it was a straight four-story drop through the dark to the asphalt pavement below.

  Across the room, Dr. Hwan Pak huddled in the far corner. His self-satisfied elation at his betrayal had turned to terror. Plainly something had gone wrong with his plan. The Duàn zhī Triad’s attempted ambush had run into a snag. Gray had initially hoped it was hotel security thwarting the attack, but as the fighting grew in volume and severity, including spats of assault rifles and the chugging rattle of machin
e guns, he suspected this was a gangland turf war.

  And apparently we’re the prize.

  Gray knew their barricade would not last forever. Someone would get the upper hand. Proving this assumption, a shotgun blast tore a fist-sized hole through the door.

  “Now or never, Kowalski!” Gray yelled.

  “You try doing this when your pants keep falling down!”

  The large man crouched on his knees in the middle of the floor as Gray and Seichan kept their backs to the sofa, using its bulk as shelter.

  Kowalski had stripped off his belt and positioned it in a circle on the floor, cinching the buckle in place and affixing a radio receiver to it. Kowalski was Sigma’s demolitions expert. While they couldn’t risk bringing weapons to China, Kowalski had traveled with an ace up his sleeve. Or in this case, laced through his belt.

  The high-yield detonation cord had been developed by DARPA. It was sealed in a tube of carbon graphene, making the explosive inside undetectable to airport screening processes.

  “All set,” Kowalski said and rolled back to join them, dragging a chair behind him.

  “What are you doing?” Pak called over to them.

  The three of them crowded behind the chair.

  “Fire in the hole!” the big man yelled and pressed the transmitter in his hand.

  The blast rocked the room, ringing Gray’s head like a struck bell. Smoke billowed. For a moment, the firefight outside halted as all parties froze at the sudden explosion.

  “Go!” Gray yelled, shoving the chair aside.

  He prayed the detonation cord had done its job. Otherwise, they were out of luck, as they’d blown Kowalski’s only supply of explosives.

  Ahead, the fiery smoldering of burned carpeting glowed through the smoke. A crater had been blasted in the floor—or rather, through the floor. The larger steel trusses were intact, but the explosion had ripped a hole between them.

  Gray stared down through the wreckage. He knew the third floor below had an almost identical layout as the fourth. Luckily the VIP room under them was empty.

  As the gunfire resumed out in the hallway, sounding even more furious, Gray waved Seichan through first. She slipped between the trusses and smoothly leaped to the floor below.