Authors: Mark Henrikson
Mark admired the
ragged edged hole in the door with amazement. An armor piercing TOW missile designed to penetrate tank armor nearly three feet thick barely managed to puncture a door standing only two inches deep. The boys at the Pentagon would give up their first born for a chance to analyze the metallurgy in this door, but that could wait. Right now his strike team needed to breach the building and gain access to the recently discovered tunnel leading back to the hidden Sphinx chamber.
Mark looked on as a particularly narrow member of the SEAL team removed his combat armor in order to fit through the beach ball sized hole in the door. Four others lift
ed the man up and carried him to the small opening as if they intended to use him as a battering ram. The small soldier thrust his arms through the opening and followed them with his head and torso as the four soldiers continued holding his legs up. The acrobatic maneuver was completed by the soldier planting a handstand inside the building and pulling his legs through the jagged opening.
A few seconds later a series of clicks and metal scraping along metal resonated through the stout door. Then in the most anticlimactic manner possible, the lat
ch released allowing the door’s weight to pull it open ever so slightly. Mark snatched the handle and wrenched it wide open. “Go!”
Six SEAL team members bolted through the open door to secure the interior and verified there were no threats before Mark and a dozen more soldiers entered. The Egyptian military chaperone moved to enter the building as well but Mark interceded. “Not on your life, Colonel.”
“This is my country,” the officer protested in his best English effort. “I tell you where to go, not the other way around.”
Mark was half way through putting on a bulletproof assault vest and stuffing it full of
extra clips and flashbang grenades by the time the Colonel managed to find the right words. Mark paused to look over his shoulder just long enough to say, “Look around you, Colonel, and tell me you think that’s actually the case.”
If the man protested further, Mark didn’t know or care. He looked around the building interior and saw nothing but row upon row of floor to
ceiling book shelves loaded with random papers and files. Somehow he expected more.
“What do we have
Commander,” Mark asked the SEAL team leader.
“No traps are present, and there’s no sign of surveillance or security equipment; except the impenetrable front door that is.” The Commander then ushered Mark to the southwest corner of the room where an unexpected sight greeted him.
A three foot wide, four foot tall section of shelving was slid forward into the aisle to reveal an opening. Beside the dark hole in the floor rest an airtight manhole cover that must have taken a Herculean effort to move. A closer examination of the hole revealed a metal lined shaft with built in ladder wrungs leading down the side.
“Forget the ladder,” Mark ordered. “Rig a
zip line harness for the first man, and the rest of us will rappel down.”
The SEAL team didn’t need to be told t
wice. The mobile section of shelving was cut away and tossed to the side allowing a tripod anchor frame to be set up over the hole while a computer controlled cable winch was anchored to the ground in the middle of the aisle. One man held a digital range finder over the hole and took a depth reading.
“Four hundred and ninety nine point three feet down,” the surveyor reported.
“Subtract four feet, enter it in, and then hook him up,” the team commander ordered.
One soldier clipped the line to
a rappelling harness built into his combat gear and then nestled himself head first down the hole with his MP-5 leading the way. He turned on his night vision goggles and then whispered, “Go.”
His words were rewarded with the sudden release of the cable. A brief three seconds later, the winch rapidly slowed his descent until the soldier hovered four feet above the tunnel floor. He tugged on the clip release and landed with his feet under him in a crouched position and weapon at the ready. “All clear,” he reported through the microphone around his neck.
One after the other, Mark and his strike team of twelve Navy SEALs rappelled down to the tunnel floor and immediately set out on the three mile underground hike back to the Sphinx. He sent four skirmishers ahead at a full run to secure the far end of the tunnel and establish a climbing position. Two were left guarding the exit ladder and the rest took more time transporting the heavy equipment through the tunnel.
No one said a thing as they moved down the solid metal tube. Each soldier carried a shoulder mounted flashlight that attempted to light the way. The sides of the tunnel were intriguing for a coup
le of reasons. First and foremost was the fact that the entire three mile length of the tube did not have a single seam.
The second, and very creepy reason, was the metal’s ability to absorb light. Metal typically reflects light back, but this surface bucked that trend. Even
with a flashlight held less than an inch away from the metal, only a dim flicker returned. Mark made sure to keep his feelings on the sensation to himself considering the manly company he kept at the moment.
Finally the main group reached the end of the line and faced the imposing
three hundred foot climb back to the surface and into the concealed chamber within the Sphinx. Mark was perilously close to the answers he needed; he could feel it in every fiber of his being.
One soldier had already made the climb and anchored several ropes in order to lift the explosives, lighting and code breaking equipment. Mark made the climb after eight soldiers and all of the equipment completed the journey ahead of him.
He reached the top ladder rung, nearly out of breath, but the sight that greeted him finished the job. Every wall of the tiny chamber was painted with scenes from ancient Egypt: the pyramid under construction, the plagues, the slave exodus, and so on. The last pane was a bit curious. It showed a completed pyramid with four tall, slender obelisks positioned at each corner. Standing in oversight of the pyramid were two creatures with the body of a man, but the head of a jackal. The two figures looked eerily similar to the four beings found among the wreckage recovered in Roswell New Mexico. Take away the jeweled necklace and the drawings were a dead ringer for those beings.
The historical significance of the chamber was breathtaking. Even the professional soldiers were distracted by what they saw. Mark would have liked nothing better than to take a few hours
and soak it all in, but time was still progressing forward, and every second counted.
“History can wait gentlemen, we have a job to do in the present,” Mark said on his way through a low doorway with a ramp leading the rest of the way to ground level and into the belly of the Sphinx.
They encountered a lit room ahead of them. As a precaution, Mark sent one of the men forward alone to investigate. He proceeded toward a lighted work station situated in front of a door that was reminiscent of a bank vault. When the soldier came within five feet of the equipment, a small antenna mounted on the ceiling came to life, pointed directly at the unsuspecting soldier and let loose a bright blue beam that enveloped the man’s entire body.
The soldier did not look harmed in any way, but he moved no farther. Moments later a badly slurred moan came from the frozen soldier. “Stay back, I can’t move.”
A weary traveler
approached a small cluster of Roman cavalrymen giving their mounts a rest. Vague shadows of his facial features were barely discernible under the hood of his thoroughly soiled cloak. Beneath the garment was a torn tunic with a layer of caked on dirt. Everything about him screamed vagrant approaching to beg for food, but something was off about the situation. Beneath the tears and stains on the clothing, the shiny fabric of fine blue silk peeked through.
The lead soldier drew his blade as the stranger approached. His patrol had already made three contacts with Pompey’s men that day while screening the movements of Caesar’s army. The man’s approach could be a preamble to an ambush
, or they may have stumbled upon a spy attempting to locate the bulk of Caesar’s force.
“State your business or be gone,” the captain
said with a firm tone inviting nothing but a crisp reply.
The stranger raised his arms
to the sky in surrender. He did not look at the soldier speaking; instead, he stared directly at the standard bearer and the insignia on the flag he carried. The preoccupation with the unit identification did not sit well with the captain, so he moved in to place the man under arrest for suspicion of being a spy.
Before the captain could dismount and execute the arrest the stranger exclaimed, “Thank the
gods. On your banner I see you fight for Caesar. Take me to my uncle immediately.”
The captain let lo
ose a hearty laugh as he finished his dismount. “Octavian died at sea, a fate you will no doubt wish upon yourself when we get through torturing the whereabouts of Pompey’s army out of you.”
Immediately the stranger pulled back the hood of his cloak to reveal a teenage face the soldiers knew qui
te well. The young man was worn and tired, but his likeness was unmistakable. He was indeed Caesar’s long lost nephew.
“Apologies
. I expected treachery, but I see now your words carry the truth of the matter.”
“I don’t need your apology, I need your mount and food rations,”
Octavian responded as he struggled to stay on his feet. “Two days spent swimming ashore and the next four weeks dodging Pompey’s patrols has taken its toll. Just get me to my uncle.”
With that
, the young man collapsed to the ground and allowed two of the soldiers to lift him onto the back of the captain’s mount. Then the entire cluster of soldiers rode eastward. Each man was eager to provide an honor guard and possibly earn himself a reward or favor from Caesar for the rescue of his dear nephew.
Following an hour
of rough riding, the soldiers finally located the main body of Caesar’s army. Among the columns of marching foot soldiers a massive covered wagon resembling a boat set on wheels rumbled along the road. Tied to the side of the beastly land vessel was the massive white stallion Octavian gave his uncle. The cavalrymen approached the carriage and signaled for the driver to halt. Eventually the back hatch of the carriage popped open and Caesar strutted out to see what caused the delay. Spotting the cluster of cavalry as the cause he said calmly, “Report?”
“I carry miraculous news
, General,” the captain said as he leaned to the side to reveal his passenger. “We found your nephew.”
Caesar’s face instantaneously revitalize
d with life and hope at the news. “Praise Jupiter,” he said as he lurched forward to help Octavian down from the horse. Upon seeing the nearly unconscious boy he shouted to no one in particular, “Send for my surgeon.”
As the captain assisted with the dismount he said, “He is uninjured from his ordeal
, though he does suffer from exhaustion I’d wager. It’s remarkable. He spent two days swimming to shore amid the storm. Of the hundred men on board the boat only he made it to shore alive. Not only that, he spent the last four weeks sneaking and foraging his way past Pompey’s men to reach us. Like you, he truly carries the god’s favor.”
“Indeed,” Caesar responded
with pride. He looked to his orderly. “Make sure these men are well rewarded for the great service they gave me this day.”
Caesar then gestured for his
physician to join him in the carriage, but Octavian suddenly summoned the strength to stand on his own two feet. “That won’t be necessary, Uncle. I’m fine, and this man’s time will be better spent caring for the men who suffer from real wounds, not simply fatigue.”
Caesar
relented and signaled for his doctor to return to his previous activities. “In that case, you will ride with me to rest as we lay our plans for battle.”
The two men walked past a scowling
Mark Antony as they entered the mammoth carriage and shut the door behind them. The sudden return of his main rival for Caesar’s favor did not sit well with Antony. He was second in command of the army and should have been in the carriage making battle plans, not the little whelp.
**********
“Pompey, please listen to me,” Hastelloy begged. “There is no need to force battle in this situation. We have him pinned against the sea and your navy prevents any escape attempt. All we need do is trench and fortify our lines. Then we wait for starvation to force Caesar’s hand.”
“Senator Brutus, a month ago you berated me in no uncertain terms for not taking swift enough action at Dyrrhachium,” Pompey challenged. “Now you stand there and argue the virtues of inaction? Morale is high from our last victory, Caesar’s troops are demoralized. Plus we have him outnumbered two to one. Of course we attack.”
“You know as well as I that numerical superiority does not by itself convey an advantage,” Hastelloy cautioned. “Even a first year officer knows an attacking army needs three times the size of a defending force to
assure victory.
“Do
n’t quote military maxims to me, Senator,” Pompey shouted, once again putting extra emphasis on Hastelloy’s political office and thereby pointing out his apparent lack of military experience. “I am Pompey Magnus. I wrote the book on warfare based on a lifetime of commanding armies in the field, not studying some words in the safety of a private library.”
Hastelloy resisted the urge to raise his voice to match Pompey’s tone. He needed the man to actually listen to his words so he’d be convinced to change his mind. That would not happen through a shouting match.
Hastelloy drew in a deep breath; let the excess air out of his lungs, and tried to push his frustrations out along with it. Then, with a slow and calm voice he continued.
“You have expertly maneuvered Caesar’s army into a
terrible spot,” Hastelloy commended. “He’s at a disadvantage right now, that is a given, but let’s consider the two advantages he still carries if we attack right now.
“First, he has trenches and fortified lines that will
at least partially nullify our greater numbers. Second, and possibly more important, his men have their backs against the sea. They will not break like before because there is nowhere else to run. In their eyes right now it is victory or death and you know better than anyone else how motivating that can be for an army.”
“Bah,” Pompey scoffed with a flippant gesture of his hand. “Caesar’s men fought so hard for him because the
y believed he was unbeatable. Now they know different, and the man who beat their general before now approaches to finish the job. His troops will see my army descend on them as if we were agents of Pluto on a mission to send them all to the underworld on his behalf. When we approach with the full mass of our numbers, they will throw up their hands to surrender and this little insurrection Caesar orchestrated will be over.”
“I concede what you just described might happen,” Hastelloy argued. “I give it a fifty-fifty chance in fact, but I
humbly suggest a course of action where the odds are stacked irresistibly in our favor. Forcing Caesar’s men to endure a month long siege will erode his numbers. I’d wager the losses he suffers from desertion will far exceed any we could inflict on the battle field. A month from now, Caesar’s men will be fewer and in no condition to fight, owing to fatigue and starvation. You have him trapped, and he can’t escape; use that advantage.”
“That i
s the coward’s way to win a war,” Pompey blasted. “The citizens of Rome demand immediate and decisive victory from me, and they shall have it.”
“They demand victory,” Hastelloy interrupted. “
As long as Caesar is contained, the speed and style of that victory becomes more a function of your ego than the demands of the citizenry.”
Pompey’s face turned bright red as his rage rushed to the surface. “You’re out of line!”
“And you’re being reckless,” Hastelloy shouted. “If you press this attack, it will be all over for us.”
“I am not over,” Pompey exploded. “I am Pompey Magnus, winner of three Triumphs, and I have never been beaten in battle.”
Pompey stepped forward to get in Hastelloy’s face and pointed a meaty index finger at his nose. “I know what you’re trying to do, Senator. You’re trying to diminish my victory to enhance your position with the people. You plan to take all the credit and take Rome for yourself just like Caesar tried to do.”
Hastelloy slapped the finger away from his nose and barely fought back the urge to punch Pompey in his. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re under arrest,” Pompey concluded. “Chain him to a tree on the highest hilltop so he can watch my victory and be dissuaded from any ambitions of staging a coup of his own some day.”
An hour later, Hastelloy found himself chained face first to a particularly tall oak tree. He strained his neck to look around the stout piece of lumber
to see the three soldiers who oversaw his imprisonment walking back to their cohort for the coming battle. His arms were just long enough to wrap around the base of the tree while the three large chain links between his wrist shackles gave him adequate mobility to poke his head around the tree and watch the action below.
The tree holding Hastelloy in place stood alone on top of a hill overlooking the peninsula that housed Caesar’s entrapped army. The soldi
ers on both sides of the battlefield were already starting to form up.
“Best view in the house,” Hastelloy sighed. A sudden twinge on his right earlobe made him rub the side of his head against the rough tree bark
for relief. As he did, a wave of déjà vu ran over him like a charging chariot. It struck him how similar this situation was to the one he faced back in Egypt. In both instances, Hastelloy was chained up and forced to look on as an Alpha plot to take over the planet unfolded before his eyes.
The key difference in Egypt
was that Tomal was working for him to destroy the Alpha ship. Now Tomal was inadvertently helping the Alpha by leading Caesar’s armies in battle. Hastelloy lamented the lack of control he had over the situation. If he commanded the army, the Alpha threat posed by their complete control over Caesar would be no more. Now the only hope he had was Pompey’s leadership skills on the battlefield. Those skills were very much in doubt now given the man’s complete lack of adherence to sound military strategy. Whether by age or arrogance, Pompey the Great was a distant memory Hastelloy feared.
Looking down into the valley
, he could clearly see the right wing of Caesar’s army would see the hardest fighting. Pompey arrayed his entire complement of 1,000 cavalry against Caesar’s measly 500. In theory, once Pompey’s cavalry dispatched their counterparts they’d be free to attack Caesar’s right flank and rear.
Normally,
a line of foot soldiers presented a formidable front, but that front only faced one direction. If those soldiers were engaged in combat in one direction, having a cavalry charge slam into them from an unprotected side would devastate them. If Pompey’s cavalry got free, they could almost single-handedly roll up Caesar’s entire army into a disorganized jumble. Then they would simply sit back and watch as the foot soldiers mopped up the shattered lines left in their wake.
That was the plan anyway, but Caesar and Tomal knew what they were about on the field of battle. The plan was obvious
, and they would certainly prepare for it. Only time and the death of men would tell.
Hastelloy felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins as the two cavalry lines met off to the side of the main body of soldiers who were rapidly closing the void in between to begin the bloodletting. After only a few minutes of heavy fighting, Hastelloy could plainly see Caesar’s cavalry forces were in trouble. They fought well, but the weight of numbers arrayed against them was too much. A low trumpet roared from that side of the battle fiel
d and Caesar’s horsemen began pulling back. Slowly at first, but they soon broke into a full speed retreat.
Encouraged by their progress,
Pompey’s cavalry pursued. Hastelloy’s pulse raced as he sensed the pending victory. It was there, it was almost there, but it was too easy. He forced his adrenaline rush aside to look at the field objectively. That’s when he saw it. There was a shiny haze among the tall grass Caesar’s cavalry were retreating towards. His stomach bound up into a tight knot when he realized what was about to happen. In futility he yelled out from a half mile away, “No, it’s a trap.”