The Cydonia Objective (Morpheus Initiative 03) Read online

  THE CYDONIA OBJECTIVE

  The Morpheus Initiative Book 3

  By David Sakmyster

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Book 1 - Reunions

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Book 2 - Seeing is Believing

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Book 3 - Myth and Marvel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Author's Notes

  Copyright © David Sakmyster, 2012

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and should not be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information e-mail all inquiries to: [email protected]

  Visit David Sakmyster on the World Wide Web at:

  www.sakmyster.com

  "Soon did the sons of Noah and their sons build a great tower in the city of Babel, which they would by magic raise unto Heaven, that they might see the throne of God. But God came down to see the tower they did build, and was displeased. He confounded their tongues, and scattered them across the earth. Even did he close the minds of men to magic, that they would not work as one any longer."

  –Hermetic Arcanum

  "The Mars we had found was just a big moon with a thin atmosphere and no life. There were no Martians, no canals, no water, no plants, no surface characteristics that even faintly resembled Earth's."

  –Bruce Murray, JPL Director 1976-1982

  For Isabella.

  May your imagination forever be as boundless as your thirst for wisdom

  Prologue

  Nuremburg, Germany—April 30, 1945

  The three American tanks rumbled through the devastation, drove around Panzer tanks decimated from the early morning Allied air strike, and crunched over the wreckage without slowing down. Buildings were still smoldering, entire housing blocks flattened. Locals moved about the wreckage, calling for loved ones and searching for valuables. Dogs barked, children ran fleeing from the invading tanks, and a pall of thick black smoke hung suspended between the jagged rooftops and the steel-gray sky.

  The tanks continued along their determined course, following narrowed streets, heading for the southwestern corner of the city, speeding there, in fact. Despite the lack of any sort of resistance, they seemed to be on an urgent mission to get somewhere fast.

  The objective soon became clear: a small church with one needle-like steeple. St. Katherine's was a prime example of gothic architecture with yawning archways and romantic columns. Badly burnt, but otherwise structurally undamaged in the attack, it stood resolute, but defenseless.

  The tanks slowed, then diverged to cover three sides of the church. Hatches opened and green-clad soldiers rushed out, climbed down the sides and hurried to set up a perimeter. They took up positions, aiming at the doors, the windows, looking for snipers.

  From the center tank, two more individuals emerged. The first: a large grey-haired soldier with a cigar trapped between his lips, one that he promptly lit as soon as he touched the ground. He was helped down by what looked to be his aide: a smaller, bookish man with spectacles and a thick crop of sweaty red hair.

  One of the soldiers stood up from his kneeling position and shouted back, "Church secure, General Patton, Sir! Do we move in?"

  Patton drew in a huge breath of cigar smoke, let it sit in his lungs, then expelled it slowly. He stared at the church without blinking. A long, slow stare. Then he spoke quietly to his aide: "You're sure it's here?"

  The red-haired man thought for a moment before responding. At least, it seemed he was thinking. His eyes closed, his head lowered, and his put his fist to his forehead. Sweat broke out along his temples, and he started to tremble. Patton pulled his attention from the church to study the man with rapt admiration.

  Finally, the red-haired man nodded and opened his eyes. "A specially constructed vault below the foundation. Reinforced walls and steel doors that you will need to blow up to get inside. It's inside the vault, in a crate, hidden among the church ornaments and other stolen relics."

  Patton smiled. "Guards?"

  "Two just outside the door to the vault room. One inside, guarding a golden box near the back. Inside is a false relic. Don't be fooled."

  His smile widening, Patton strode forward; he waved to his soldiers and pointed to the front door. As the men raced ahead, Patton slowed, then turned back. The red-haired man still stood in place, hugging his arms, shaking slightly as the wind blew smoke trails around him. A plane roared overhead, and he winced with the sound. He met Patton's gaze and his dry lips parted.

  "You'll keep it safe?"

  Patton drew another breath from the cigar and thought before answering. "Better than Hitler did, the egomaniac. To think, he actually let it out of his grasp. And look what happened."

  The red-haired man nodded. "So it's true? They're advancing on his bunker in Berlin?"

  Patton shrugged. "I don't need your skills to see that the coward will probably take his own life before we get there. It's over. The Reich is finished, and—"

  "And America? Will it take its place?"

  Patton's expression formed a look of annoyance at the question. "America will be what it's meant to be." He pointed to the church. "When we reclaim what Hitler stole from that museum in Austria, we'll be unstoppable. But power is just a means to an end. Eisenhower no doubt will order that we return the relic to its rightful owner, like all the other stolen artifacts we reclaim from these Nazi bastards."

  "But you won't let him do that, will you?" The red-haired man's lips curled in a tight smile. "And don't bother answering, I've seen it already."

  "Ah, then I suppose I must insist you keep that little vision to yourself." Patton grinned back at him, even as gunshots sounded from inside the church: a short, brief exchange, and then quiet resumed as the church's defenders met their quick ends. "So, if I might ask, what else have you seen?"

  The red-haired man closed his eyes for a moment, as if recapturing a series of fond memories. "You are going to trick your commander. Your artists will create a perfect forgery, and you will let General Eisenhower return that to the Austrian government. Meanwhile, you are going to place the true artifact somewhere that makes perfect sense. Not only hidden in plain sight, but keeping it where it can wielded by the most important symbol of everything America stands for as the preeminent world power."

  General Patton blinked at the man for several seconds, chewing on the end of the diminishing cigar until the ashes fell, joining others from N
uremberg's burning skyline. Then, he nodded once more.

  "You have surpassed all my expectations, Jordan Crowe. I thank you. And your nation thanks you."

  The red-haired man closed his eyes. And after Patton turned and at long last strode into the church to claim his prize, Crowe spoke, directing his words into the rising wind: "Hide it well, General."

  He sighed and closed his eyes, the lids flickering with a far off vision.

  "Hide it well, so that it may still be there when it's truly needed."

  BOOK ONE

  Reunions

  1.

  Cairo, Egypt—Present Day

  As the limo violently swerved to avoid something in the road, Orlando Natch held the laptop in his weak grasp, still woozy from blood loss after being attacked by ravenous eels in the mausoleum of Genghis Khan.

  But despite everything he'd gone through, he felt rejuvenated, as if his ascent from the depths of that tomb and his multiple brushes with death had transformed him like a veritable Phoenix from its own ashes. Less than twelve hours earlier, that adventure already seemed like a lifetime ago, something that had happened to someone else, someone much braver, more deserving to be here with the beautiful young woman sitting beside him.

  Phoebe Crowe continued staring at the laptop screen, even as she flinched at the sound of something striking the limo's front windshield. The image on the screen—the planet Mars, the red, dusty soil photographed from the Viking Orbiter in 1976, one of over fifty-thousand pictures taken during its mission—depicted a mesa-dotted region known as 'Cydonia', home to a certain famously controversial image.

  A face.

  A trick of light and shadow, most scientists believed, despite other equally incongruous structures nearby—things that looked suspiciously like pyramids, walled enclosures, and geometrically-precise markers aligned in relation to the mile-long, symmetrical 'face'.

  Another object struck the windshield, and Phoebe looked up, annoyed. Cairo's roads were dusty and decrepit in places, and the bumpy ride from the pyramids toward the airport was jarring, with pebbles flying and--

  "Oh crap!" Orlando shrieked, just as the driver grunted and his head snapped back, spraying blood into the back seat. Above the steering wheel, the windshield had a neat hole in it, with cracks spreading out, reaching toward the other impact point where another bullet had glanced off.

  The limo turned sharply as the driver slumped sideways and dragged the wheel in his dying grasp. Phoebe screamed, and Orlando reached for her as an oncoming bus slammed into the driver's side. A moment of tortured metallic screaming, and the limo banked up on its side, then flipped over.

  The rest of the windows fractured, and as Phoebe rolled onto the roof with Orlando on top of her, she saw something out the back window. A black Hummer screeched to a halt, turning sideways.

  And a man leaned out the window, taking aim at them with a grenade launcher.

  #

  Phoebe cursed, held Orlando tight and tried to drag him up to the front, hoping to get out the main windshield. Never make it, she thought, wincing, bracing herself. Any second now–

  The ground rocked, the limo shook, and she closed her eyes, hoping she'd feel no pain. The explosion came, except… it sounded less intense than she would have thought. Like it was at a distance. And–

  "I don't believe it." Orlando pulled her up and dragged her over the seats, over the dead driver and out the shattered windshield. Onto a street littered with crashed cars, the overturned bus, and people filing out, shell-shocked. Phoebe stood and looked back toward the Hummer and saw what was left of it on its side with flames roaring through the shattered windows.

  Bewildered, she glanced around just as two more dark forms leapt from a nearby alleyway and raised sleek guns she recognized as MP5s, the kind those commandos had when they'd captured the Morpheus team down in the mausoleum.

  "Oh, that's just not fair," Orlando said, raising his hands even as the men took aim. Phoebe flinched as the shots rang out—and both men spun around, the backs of their heads simultaneously exploding. Two thin red beams descended from the sky and swept over their inert bodies, before darting over to Orlando and Phoebe.

  Dust and wind kicked up, her hair blew back and then forward over her eyes, and Orlando shielded his face as he looked up.

  "Helicopter."

  A rope ladder descended and a voice yelled from above, "Climb up!"

  Pushed by Orlando, Phoebe reached for the second rung and started climbing. Halfway up, expecting more shots to come from darkened alleys or apartment windows or rooftop shadows, she paused, tensing.

  Three shots from above got her back into action. These people knew what they were doing, she thought grimly. I really hope they're the good guys.

  Near the top, she called down to Orlando, who was still struggling at the bottom, trying to hold his laptop and climb at the same time. Finally giving it up, he let it drop with a mournful groan, whimpered as it shattered, then scampered up after her.

  In the helicopter, two men with helmets and rifles slung over their shoulders hauled her up while another with an RPG at his side started pulling up the ladder with Orlando still on it.

  "GO!" one of them yelled to the pilot. The helicopter ascended and rushed ahead, even as the man with the RPG swiveled, aimed and fired two more shots at rooftop targets.

  Orlando tumbled inside and clutched at Phoebe with an intensity that only surprised her because of how strong she found herself returning his hug.

  The closest man shut the door, then took off his helmet, revealing a leathery face, a thick head of silvery hair, and pale blue eyes that blinked slowly as he considered his cargo.

  "So you two are the ones causing all this fuss."

  Orlando glanced out the window, bidding farewell to his lost laptop. "Who, us?"

  Phoebe was shaking her head, still bewildered. "The driver was taking us to the airport. We were told our part was done, that we'd be allowed to leave. It doesn't make sense. Why would they have attacked us?"

  Their rescuer sighed. "The limo was bugged. And so is your house back in New York. You would have been monitored. Everything you said, they'd follow. They would have hacked your computers, your phones…"

  "I knew it," Orlando said. "I was right!"

  Phoebe stared at him. "About…?"

  The man with the gun nodded. "We tapped into their signal and heard what they heard. Heard you talking. They gave the order to take you out as soon as you mentioned the name of– "

  "Mars!" Orlando shook his head. "Son of a bitch. What does it have to do with any of this? The Face? All that crazy stuff NASA's been ridiculing for years…?"

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," the man said. "First things first." He held out a hand. "Edgerrin Temple, and the others here are what we like to call our Retrieval Unit."

  "Whose retrieval unit?" Phoebe asked, shouting to be heard over the engine.

  The man smiled. "We're not out of the woods yet." He pointed to a row of seats on the wall. "You might want to strap yourselves in."

  As Phoebe moved into her seat, she peered out the window, seeing the looming Egyptian landmarks coming back into view, and she grinned. "We're going back for my brother!"

  "Actually, no."

  "What? We can't leave him there."

  "We can. They'll be all right."

  Orlando finished with his seat belt. "How do you know that?"

  Temple smiled as he put a phone to his ear. "We're not without our own talents."

  Phoebe gave Orlando a look. She caught his hand, squeezed it. They both nodded together and closed their eyes.

  "Hey!" Temple slammed the butt of his rifle against the floor. "No psychic-stuff now. Stay with me!"

  Phoebe glared at him. "Caleb's down there, trapped under the Sphinx. With– "

  "Alexander, yes we know. And your half-brother Xavier Montross."

  "Who the hell do you work for?" Phoebe asked directly. "And no more games. We've been double-crossed by the CIA, th
e FBI, the Keepers, and some other crazy religious group. Which one are you?"

  Temple's blue eyes remained radiant and sympathetic. "None of the above, I assure you, but for now, just look."

  As they circled around the Great Pyramid, Phoebe and Orlando were handed high-powered binoculars. Temple pointed down to the forepaws of the Great Sphinx, where a group of figures were standing, some of them glancing up.

  Phoebe focused on one figure in particular, the one apparently in charge, barking orders, moving armed men and jeeps into a perimeter, signaling others to descend below. The figure paused, then looked up.

  Phoebe said, "Damn. It's Nina."

  "That bitch," Orlando quipped. "Figures."

  "Confirmed," Temple said into his phone, and then promptly tapped the pilot on the shoulder. The helicopter banked sharply, then took off.

  "What was that all about?" Phoebe asked. "What's confirmed?"

  Temple smiled. "The Dove's vision."

  "The what?" Orlando rubbed his eyes. "This sucks! Seriously, tell us or I'm remote-viewing you clowns as soon as you turn your back."

  Temple shrugged. "You might not see much."

  "Why's that?" Phoebe asked. "We're good at this, as you must know if you've been tracking us."

  "Yes," he said, "you're good. But we've got a Shield."

  Phoebe and Orlando glanced at each other. "A what?"

  "Tell me something," said Temple as they flew higher, leaving the city far below and heading out over the desert. "Did you ever try to view something, maybe like a religious something... like, I don't know, the Crucifixion, or the birth of Jesus? Maybe Joseph Smith and his meeting with the angels? Mohammed's desert vision? Any of that?"

  Phoebe paled, her mouth opened. "Yes, of course. What remote-viewer with any skill wouldn't try to get a glimpse into that kind of thing?"

  Orlando glanced at her sharply. "You have?"

  She nodded slowly, meeting his confused stare.