The Mountain: An Event Group Thriller (58 page)

“How long will it take to remove the ice from the top of the Ark so we can get some needed light for our Mr. Perlmutter?”

“The ice sheet covering the top is only ten feet thick. A small charge in the direct center should break open the cave’s top and we should be able to see the Ark from here.”

“Proceed, gentlemen.”

Jackson saluted and then went to his ordnance men and told them to start laying the charges on top of the ice above the vessel.

John Henry didn’t comment when Jessy stayed behind. Gray Dog saw the seriousness on the colonel’s face and decided to leave the two old classmates alone.

“You know and I know what those men saw down there. Get your photography done and let’s get the hell off of this mountain.”

“Colonel Taylor, may I remind you we haven’t received or sent word to Lieutenant Parnell since our arrival. When we finish here, if we haven’t yet established contact, we could be walking into an entire army of angered Turks down there. We may as well do the job we were sent here to do until that can be established. Are we clear on that?”

Taylor slapped his gloves against the side of his leg and then angrily moved off to assist in laying the charges.

John Henry knew that Jessy was right, but he felt trapped as he did not know the disposition of the rest of his men.

TALISE STATION, PLAIN OF ARARAT

Lieutenant Parnell had a difficult time convincing the Army of the Potomac band that they were in serious trouble. The men were silently working at laying the rail ties for a rail line that would never be completed, just as the Americans had known all along. It had been a full day since he had sent a marine corporal off to the halfway point to await any response from Constantinople, or any other government that came looking.

“That summit is still blanketed in weather, Lieutenant. There’s no way we can see any signal with this system closing in around us.”

“Keep an eye out. A break may appear instantaneously and we must see the signal when we get a break. Clear?”

“Aye, Lieutenant.” The naval ensign pointed to the hill to the south. “Have you noticed the number of our audience has grown?”

Parnell looked to the rise and saw that the British officers had been joined by ten more men.

“Things are apt to get interesting around here soon enough,” he said as he turned away from their constant watchers. Parnell looked at the remaining marines and the hundred-and-twenty-member Army of the Potomac band. He shook his head.

“What am I supposed to do, serenade them when they come charging at us?”

The situation was getting desperate.

WATER STATION, CONSTANTINOPLE LINE

Lance Corporal Walter Campbell watched the five-hundred-member Seventh Guards Regiment board the train after the locomotive took on water. He had almost been caught getting to the charges he had planted four days before at Talise Station. When he managed to reach the dynamite charges, he was relieved to find them still in place and undiscovered. He had lit the fuse and hoped the length was long enough not to blow up the water tank and surrounding buildings. He saw that the last of the Ottoman Empire’s most elite troops had boarded and the locomotive sounded its whistle. A blast of steam powered the steel wheels into a spin as the train slowly started to move.

The explosion ripped open the huge boiler and sent shards of iron into the air. The locomotive hissed and then slowed as the boiling water and steam were blown free of the boiler. He saw men scramble off the train’s cars and start to fan out, expecting the Americans had opened up on them with cannon fire. There were even a few stray shots fired as the Turks didn’t know from which direction the attack was coming.

“Stupid bastards,” the marine corporal chuckled, and then turned to his horse.

The commanding general of the Turkish regiment ducked his head for cover and then straightened and turned angrily to the Frenchman Renaud and raised his brow.

“It seems the Americans may be a mite more aggressive than you thought.”

“Well, what are you going to do?” Renaud asked angrily as he hopped down from the private car that had been the home of John Henry just a few days before. “Damn,” he said when he saw the horse and rider burst from the shadows of the dilapidated station. The rider was hell-bent on getting to the east.

“I am going to do what I was ordered to do, my French friend. I am going to pursue.” He turned and found his second-in-command. “Captain, unload the horses. We ride east within the hour.”

The Seventh Guards Regiment had been stopped—but only momentarily.

ONE HUNDRED FIFTY MILES NORTH OF TRABZON HARBOR, THE BLACK SEA

It had been almost eighteen hours since the
Argo
and her towline were cut loose from the
Carpenter
. The crew of the barge roamed from station to station checking the pressure valves on the sixteen flotation bags inside the hull of the awkward-looking barge. Each of the bags was the size of an observation balloon used by both sides during the war. The designer was, of course, John Ericsson. The men on deck kept a sharp eye out on the horizon for either the damaged
Carpenter,
the
Chesapeake,
or
Yorktown
. Thus far, with the exception of the French frigate
Especial
, the seas had been clear. The French observers were surely wondering why such a strangely designed vessel was of such importance to the French admiralty. She was ungainly and extremely wide of girth. She was thirty-five feet longer than the massive
Yorktown
and was almost double her tonnage.

A hatch that was situated at the stern opened and the real commander of the
Argo
stepped onto the barge’s wooden decking. The captain, actually another navy lieutenant, J.G., took a deep breath and then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his tunic. He removed his hat and allowed the cool sea breeze to wash through his sweat-soaked uniform.

“Sir, the French frigate keeps signaling and asking if we could use their assistance,” a young helmsman reported.

Lieutenant Giles Ferguson straightened and then, remembering his position within the two crews of the
Argo
, rebuttoned his tunic after the brief respite. He placed the hat back on his head.

“The bastards are damn well lucky we have other priorities at the moment, because to tell you the truth I’m in the mood to sink every damn foreign-flagged naval vessel in the Black Sea after what they did last night.”

“Yes, sir, it would surely be pleasing to the boys down there in that hellhole.”

Ferguson glanced back at the hatch, which remained open, as were the other twelve on the barge’s main deck for the men below to get some fresh air. As long as they were being spied upon by the French frigate, he couldn’t allow the full complement of crew up from the
Argo
. As it was, he had to bring them up no more than ten men at a time to mix in cleanly with the barge crew. If the French knew they had a complement of two crews onboard, their little deception might end real soon.

“Captain, the
Especial
is making another run at us,” said the helmsman at the wheel of an unmaneuverable ship.

“Damn it!” Ferguson cursed as he ran to the port railing and watched helplessly as the harassment continued. He saw the French crew lining her gunwales and laughing at the sailless and mastless barge.

The
Especial
finally made her turn close enough that her bow wave struck the
Argo
and rocked her. Captain Ferguson watched as an old veteran sailor waited until the faces of the French were close at hand, and then the old bearded sailor turned and lowered his pants and showed the French crew and their command his bone-white butt. The men of the
Argo
cheered as the
Especial
slid past. The French sailors looked on as the rest of the American crew did the same as the first.

Ferguson, a stickler for military protocol, saw this and had to smile as close to a hundred American sailors lined the railing with their breeches down around their knees showing the French exactly how the United States Navy felt about the French actions.

The captain paced to the railing toward the sailor who had started the avalanche of emotion by sending his pants to half-staff. The sailor was just pulling up his pantaloons when he noticed the captain standing next to him.

“Apologies, Captain. Major pants malfunction,” the chief petty officer said as he secured his pants to full staff.

Ferguson had to smile, though he hid it well.

Every crewman below or above decks knew that soon their good humor would wear thin and the surface of the Black Sea would possibly roil in violence.

Argo
and her crew were itching to break free of their wooden cocoon.

MOUNT ARARAT, THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE

John Henry looked at his watch and knew they only had an hour before they attempted to blow the cave’s ceiling free of ice, so they did not have long to conduct the meeting. He closed the watch and looked around the interior of the space they had viewed two days before when it had been covered in ice. Now that it was illuminated he could see why the subject of a curse was running rampant throughout the camp. The deaths of the Rebel soldier and Grandee were still weighing heavily on all of their minds.

Claire and McDonald arrived first and they had Professor Ollafson between them. The old man was looking pale as he clutched his satchel to his chest. Claire eased him onto the folding camp chair in front of the small table. The light cast eerie shadows on the petrified wood making up the familial enclosure of the Ark. Taylor and Captain Jackson soon followed. Gray Dog and Dugan watched from the opening and looked equally uncomfortable inside the ancient wreck.

John Henry cleared his throat. “Professor, first off I want to say that the decision to only take photographs and recover provenance of the Ark’s existence was not mine to make. The president is receiving very disturbing reports from Europe that the powers that be will not allow any American prestige to exit this mountain. He suspects that they will attempt to stop us, legally or illegally.”

Ollafson continued to clutch the relics to his chest. That was when Taylor and John Henry both noticed the scorch marks on the cloth of the large satchel. It was if the case had been singed in a fire. Thomas looked at Claire, who in turn reached over and tried to pry the artifacts from his strong grip. Without acknowledging Claire’s efforts, Ollafson continued to hold the satchel. Finally Jessy stood and wrenched the bag from the professor’s grip. He looked up at Taylor and his face was a blank mask of hate and confusion. Taylor tossed the heavy sailcloth case onto the table where it made a sickening, wet sound as it struck the table.

Thomas looked at Claire. She remained standing and cautiously opened the case and revealed the artifacts inside. She stepped back for only an instant and then felt embarrassed by her childish reaction. She shook her head and then pulled the petrified wood free of the case. She used her gloves but could still feel the coldness through the leather.

“As I’ve explained before, this Angelic symbol here is for the Archangel Azrael. These others are of other lesser angels sent by God for the protection of Noah and his kin. The way the Bible explains it, Azrael was also known as the Angel of Death.”

“You mean this curse revolves around a hood-wearing, scythe-wielding skeletal specter?” Jessy asked.

“That, Colonel, is the modern interpretation of the entity, yes. But in ancient times it was somewhat different. According to legend, Azrael was involved with Lucifer and it was suspected by the other Archangels, most notably Gabriel and Michael, that Lucifer and Azrael conspired to overthrow heaven and the throne of God.”

“It sounds as if you’re referring to when God tossed Lucifer’s ass out of heaven. If so, why not this Azrael?” Taylor asked as John Henry sat silently and listened. Ollafson and McDonald were wearing unreadable blank faces. As for Gray Dog and Dugan standing by the opening, it was if they were mere children listening to a spooky bedtime story. Their eyes were wide and kept roaming the interior of the Ark and its long-dead petrified wood. As for Captain Jackson, he was fast becoming a believer.

“That has been debated by Angelic scholars for centuries. None of this is ever mentioned in the Bible. I believe it would have scared most true believers to death if they heard it.”

“Why is that?” John Henry asked, for the first time breaking his silence.

“Because it is argued inside of Christian and Jewish circles that Azrael was the only archangel that God ever feared, because Azrael was the only angel given the power of death over mankind.”

“And thus the Lord sent Lucifer into exile to rule over hell, and Azrael’s punishment was to be placed on earth for eternity in the company of man for the protection of the first family of God.”

All eyes turned to face a now-silent Ollafson after he had managed to frighten them all when he spoke. In the corner Gray Dog listened and Dugan accidentally swallowed his chewing tobacco.

“Noah and his family?” John Henry asked, still looking at a grinning Ollafson, sure the man had lost all thought of reality.

“Yes, that’s the conclusion of the league of biblical scholars.” Claire saw that Thomas was still skeptical to say the least.

“And this Azrael is still here after thirteen thousand years? I hate to break it to you but Noah and his family have been dead a very long time,” Thomas countered.

Ollafson suddenly stood and paced the room. It was though he was recently awakened from a long slumber and knew it was time for class. He placed a gloved hand against the petrified hull of the Ark and lovingly caressed it.

“The Bible is incorrect in regards to the tale of the flood.” Ollafson turned to face Claire and his eyes were clear. Claire sat down, shocked at the professor’s sudden wakefulness. “Noah’s family is most assuredly not dead, Colonel. Would you care to explain? Miss Claire?” Ollafson stood over them like he was a lecturing professor tutoring ignorant students. Claire cleared her throat trying, to ignore the strange way Ollafson was looking at her.