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The Humvee crested the dune and rolled to a stop. Above, the stars looked down. Night in the Iraqi desert. Ahead and behind, nothing but the undulating surface of the desert.
The four-man tactical rescue team, Operation Ferret, assessed their current position. Their coordinates put them just west of the last received signal from the downed F1 fighter jet. The skies were relatively quiet—a brief intermission in the barrage that had been pounding Baghdad and points south for the past several days. A temporary cease fire—at least until the downed jet could be located and the pilots retrieved.
"We have company," spoke one of the team. "Enemy at ten o'clock."
"Let's move!"
In the distance, four sets of headlights appeared—three jeeps and one larger vehicle. Tracers cut the dark with tinny pings as bullets flew past the Humvee and buried into the sand.
The Humvee gunned it, accelerating down the dune in an evasive zigzag pattern, leaving a plume of dust in its wake.
Moments later, the lead Iraqi jeep roared up the very same dune. The vehicle fish-tailed to a stop, burying its front wheels in the sand. The other vehicles in the group pulled up alongside. The commander stood. He held a pair of night-vision binoculars to his eyes.
In the distance, the Humvee crested another dune and disappeared beneath the starlit night. A second man sitting beside the commander asked in his native language why the commander was letting the Yankee-Americans get away. The commander raised his binoculars and focused on a point farther ahead. Although his eyes could see nothing but rolling desert, he knew what was out there.
"Where they are headed, they will have wished we had caught them," he said. "May Allah have mercy on their souls." He then gave the order to return to their outpost.
––––––––
The voice of the communications officer Mauricio Estevez crackled in Sgt. McDivett's ear. "Sir, they've turned back." The Humvee slowed.
"Can we get a bearing?"
"Sir, the coordinates have moved."
"Check them again."
"I have, sir. A thousand meters east-northeast."
The Humvee rolled into a wide valley. The night sky painted the desert with a purplish iridescence.
"Over there."
McDivett aimed his binoculars in the direction of a large dune. The sand was scored with black streaks. Bits of debris were scattered in and about the impact zone. Strangely, the main body of the aircraft was nowhere in sight.
The Humvee pulled up to the crash berm and killed its engine.
"Explosion, sir?"
"Possibly." McDivett had never seen anything like it. A crash site without an aircraft. Something didn't feel right. "Okay, four-point perimeter. You know the drill. Let's find these guys and get the hell out of here."
McDivett scanned the surrounding terrain. There were depressions in the sand leading away from the site; what made them was hard to tell. Sand was like slow-moving water, shifting, alive. In a few days even the crash site would be a memory.
"Sarge, I think I found something."
The impressions in the sand led in a straight line to where Pvt. Murphy was standing. Behind the young soldier, the dune rose too steeply to be natural. McDivett watched as Murphy walked forward, disappeared for a moment, then stepped back into view.
When the four men converged, they collectively looked up in awe at the formation before them. It was an opening in the dune, an entrance of some sort, definitely man-made.
"A bunker, sir?" asked Murphy.
"If it is, it's big enough to hold an entire infantry."
"Besides, somebody left the door open," added Pvt. Simms, the team's munitions expert.
Sand cascaded down from overhead in a light shower. Murphy pulled his semi-automatic and pointed it at 12:00.
"Stay loose, farm boy. Don't go all trigger happy on us," Simms spoke with a southern drawl.
"All right, listen up. By all indications, our men are inside. Simms, Murphy, you take lead. Don't bunch up. Maintain radio silence. Let's go."
As the two men ran into the entrance, infrareds lighting their way, Corporal Estevez turned to the sergeant. "Sir, what could have pulled the wreckage inside?" he asked.
The sergeant checked his watch. "Can't say, Corporal. Hopefully, just a couple Iraqis and a heavy-duty winch." He looked up. "On three. One. Two...."
They rushed the opening and the desert was once again devoid of movement.
––––––––
The entrance corridor was perhaps twenty meters in height. Its sides slanted down pyramidically, its walls made of stone, not steel. This was no Hussein-built military bunker to house the Red Guard, it was more like an ancient mausoleum.
Every sound echoed within the great stone space. Along its length, the evening wind off the desert reverberated, creating an eerie howl. The men could hear their own breathing in their ears.
When McDivett and Estevez caught up with Murphy and Simms, the two were standing before a tall wooden entry gate, solid, perhaps two feet thick. Murphy pointed with his gun to the sand at their feet. The drag-tracks ended abruptly, presumably continuing on into whatever was on the other side of the gate. The men waited for their next order.
But the unusual circumstances gave the seasoned sergeant pause.
Left and right corridors ran away into the darkness. McDivett didn't want to split up, but it appeared they had no other option.
He motioned for Murphy and Simms to take the left-hand route, while he and Estevez would take the right. In five minutes they would meet back in front of the gate. And off they ran.
Because of the oddly angled walls, the corridor appeared to run straight. But as they came upon the first sign of occupation—a burning oil lamp mounted in the stone at a point where the corridor split into two separate passageways—McDivett realized they had traveled nearly a hundred meters in a slow, inward-sweeping arc.
McDivett, his infrared goggles removed, turned to Estevez. "This is no good. We're heading back," he whispered.
"Sir, wait. Did you see that?"
McDivett could hear the corporal's strained breathing. The young man was scared.
"There." Estevez pointed down one of the long, dark passageways.
In the distance, McDivett thought he saw a flicker of light. They could be walking into an ambush. The narrow passageway was not a preferable choice for engagement. But there were two pilots MIA; their lives depended upon him.
"Alright, Corporal. If we get pinned down, you better hug that wall like it's your mother. Let's go."
The two men zig-zagged down the passage, trading places a ten meter intervals. When they reached the spot where the light had appeared, there was nothing but darkness—and two more passageways.
This was ridiculous, thought McDivett. And disorienting. One could easily get turned around. The passageways all looked the same.
"Ever feel like a rat in a maze, Corporal Estevez?" the Sergeant asked rhetorically.
"Heading back, sir?"
That's when they heard the rumble, as if something large and heavy were being moved.
"Shit!"
By the time they made it back to the wooden gate, it had already settled back into its seemingly immovable position. Fresh tracks scored the sandy floor.
Murphy and Simms came running, M16s at the ready. They looked at the tracks.
"Murphy—go confirm."
Murphy hustled down the entrance, out into the desert night. He came back winded.
"The Humvee, sir, it's gone. Also, the wind's picking up."
Simms had been examining the gate. "Time for some fireworks, Sarge?"
"You know what to do."
Simms grinned. The soldier kneeled and pulled two blast packs from his gear, then a third for good measure.
"Not too much, Simms, we don't want the entire dune coming down upon our heads."
"No, sir. Three's the charm."
"Let's pull back."
The men took cover as Simms placed the charges along the midsection of the gate and began to wire them up.
"Gentlemen, please!"
All four soldiers pivoted with their weapons aimed.
A white-robed figure appeared from out of the dark of the left-hand corridor carrying a small lantern. His face was obscured by a cowl.
"Stop right there!" commanded McDivett. "Identify yourself!"
"I should ask the same of you," the figure replied in a pleasant tone. His English was well-schooled. The man continued to walk forward.
"I said, stop!"
"Oh, very well." The figure stopped.
"Identify yourself!"
The man reached up and pulled back his hood. "My name is Rictor. Dr. Benjamin Rictor. I'm the—" he paused to choose the proper title "—director of this place." His hair was white. His large eyes stared unblinkingly at the show of force. "You have come for your men, I assume. I will help you locate them if you would just put down your weapons."
"You'll help us locate them, all right." McDivett approached the robed man and frisked him up and down.
"I assure you I am unarmed."
McDivett stepped back. "Simms—blow the gate."
"No, please! This is a thousand-year-old monastery. You are the first new people to arrive in over seven years. A very auspicious occurrence, I might add. Please don't harm the gate, I beg of you."
McDivett put the nose of his weapon on the man's sternum. "Doc, it's like this. I don't care who the fuck you are or what the fuck you're doing here. Return our vehicle, give us our pilots and we'll be on our way. Agreed?"
"If you promise not to destroy the gate."
"No promises. Agreed?" McDivett poked the man in the chest for punctuation.
The robed man let out an exasperated sigh. "Very well then. Follow me." He turned and began to walk away.
"Hold it! Just stay right there."
The man turned, his face openly frustrated. "We don't have a lot of time."
"Neither do we." McDivett turned to his men. "Murphy, Estevez—you come with me. Simms—you stay put. If you don't hear from us in fifteen, blow the fucker and return to base. That's an order."
"Yes, Sarge."
"Okay, Doc, take us to our men. And don't do anything stupid."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Sergeant. Right this way."
––––––––
The doctor led the three soldiers through a series of passageways. In the wan lantern light McDivett could see the rough ancestry of the stone. It was a charcoal grey, laced with filaments of green. The walls, however, were coated with a strange slippery substance that was tacky to the touch.
"Goo," Murphy voiced as he wiped his fingers on his fatigues.
"The stones weep," said Rictor. "It is odd. Most people envision the desert to be a dry, lifeless place. But you would be surprised how alive such a place can be."
McDivett tried to keep track of the series of turns they had made. Whoever had built this ancient structure, had built it to last. It had the size and feel of a fortress. Some of the openings were barely visible until they were upon them. Over all, they seemed to be heading inward toward a central hub—like some medieval equivalent to the Pentagon.
Rictor continued to ramble on about the silly battle raging up above and the simplicity of his own existence. "This monastery is a peaceful oasis amidst the technological wasteland of your modern world."
"The Iraqis must supply you with food and water, then," said McDivett.
"Not one iota, I assure you, Sergeant," replied Rictor with a condescending tone.
"No one can survive alone out here in the desert."
Rictor laughed. "Who said I was alone? Here we are."
They rounded a corner and the entire space opened up into a chamber the size of an auditorium. Oil lanterns topped ten-foot high pedestals. The ceiling spanned perhaps twenty meters overhead and was painted with religious murals depicting billowing clouds and winged seraphim ascending into the divine light. The air smelled of incense and greasy food. Below, lounging on an odd assortment of furniture culled from gutted military vehicles and obsolete aircraft were half a dozen people dressed in similar white garb. At least three were women.
"Look everyone!" yelled Rictor. "We have visitors!"
The people began to get up, but when they saw the guns, their initial excitement cooled.
"Hello, visitors," called one of the women. She waved a feminine hand. Her fingernails were polished a scarlet red.
"They've come for the two fighting men."
"Uh-oh," said another of the women and she giggled. The rest of the group giggled with her.
McDivett could hear noises in the outer passageway. Murphy was smiling at one of the women. Estevez was gazing up at the ceiling. He mumbled something in Spanish and crossed himself.
"What's the matter, Sergeant?" asked Rictor. His voice was soothing. McDivett could hardly move. Something was interfering with his concentration. The incense—it seemed to snake into his nostrils and cloud his brain. The room blurred for a moment and Rictor's face appeared to contort into something inhuman.
McDivett jumped back and pointed his gun at the doctor. "Where are the pilots?" he demanded.
Murphy began to laugh. "Sarge?" He was pointing at the sergeant's M16.
McDivett looked down. His weapon had become a large brown boa constrictor. Its skin glistened in the lantern light. Its tongue slipped out and tickled his wrist. McDivett quickly dropped the beast and kicked it into the corner. The situation was beginning to unravel.
Murphy began to wander away, down toward the seated group, his eyes locked on one of the robed women.
"Private—stay at your post!" commanded McDivett. But Murphy simply glanced over his shoulder. There was a mischievous grin on his lips. His eyes were pinpoints. He didn't reply, he just kept walking.
Murphy's weapon had also been discarded. It leaned against the wall, transformed into a plastic wiffle ball bat.
McDivett turned to Estevez. But the young communication's officer was down on his knees, engaged in a furious prayer. His M16 had become a simple wooden staff.
What the hell was happening?
"What's the matter, Sergeant?" Rictor asked again, whose face bore a look of amusement.
"You drugged us, didn't you?" McDivett stepped back and stumbled over the snake he had dropped.
"Not at all, Sergeant. You drugged yourself." Rictor laughed.
Defenseless, McDivett began to back out of the doorway, afraid for the first time since he could remember. He ran down the corridor. Maybe he could find his way back to Simms, they could blow the gate and get the hell out of there. He reached for his infrared glasses as he ran and pulled them on. He had just enough time to see the wall before he slammed into it.
Dazed and prone on the dusty floor, McDivett heard the shuffle of footsteps in the corridor. He struggled to get up but strong arms hooked him around the armpits and dragged him away. Moments later, a voice leaned in and whispered, "Be gentle with him." It was a woman's voice. He felt a soft hand caress his face before he lost consciousness entirely.
––––––––
When McDivett awoke he was lying on a cot in a smaller chamber. The stones overhead were unbroken but for two rectangular recesses that let in a soft white light. He assumed it must be morning. The operation had failed. Perhaps he and his men were part of a new rescue mission. Operation Fuck-up. Perhaps not.
Across the room, a young woman stood at a table using a mortar and pestle. Her long hair was tied back in a simple knot. She wore a thin white gown that stopped just short of her ankles. Her hands worked diligently to grind up pieces of a black substance that was piled in a small mound on the table beside her.
McDivett sat up. His head pounded. The woman turned.
"You're awake," she said, and smiled.
"What time is it?" asked McDivett.
"Time?" She looked up to the ceiling. "Day time," she said innocently.
"You were the one who found me in the passageway."
She nodded and continued to grind her materials. Wide-mouth jars stuffed with various substances lined the tabletop, each with a different color and texture. Their labels read Yellow Sunshine, Red Zinger, Purple Haze, and other cheery names.
"Who are you?" McDivett asked.
She turned again. "My name is Reyann."
"Reyann, my name is Kendall. I was sent here to find some men of ours."
"Fighting men," she said with a frown.
"Soldiers, yes. Fighting men. But good men. Men with families—wives and children."
Reyann slowed her grinding and considered each word as would a child when listening to an adult. "Angry men," she said.
McDivett got up off the cot. His joints ached. His head throbbed again. He walked over to where Reyann stood. "Reyann, please, these men need my help. I need you to help me find them."
She turned to McDivett. Her eyes were a beautiful green with flecks of gold. "Fighting men are angry men. And angry men are unhappy men. Dr. Rictor says these men will be much happier here. And so will you." She reached up and caressed McDivett's cheek.
McDivett looked at her. Her innocence was astounding. It was also alluring. He leaned in and kissed her. Her lips tasted of cinnamon. But something wasn't right. The urge to forget about his men, his mission—to find comfort instead in her mouth, her skin, her lithe body—was nearly overpowering. He resisted.
"I'm sorry," he said and pulled away.
"It's okay. Everything is okay. There are no rules here. Only the rules we create for ourselves."
She reached up for another embrace.
McDivett grabbed her wrists. "No. Don't you see?" He pointed to the pile of dried substances. "Where do you get these?"
"The mushrooms? They are in the catacombs. It is beautiful down there. Would you like to go see?" Her eyes grew heavy with temptation.
McDivett picked up one of the jars. "Is this what you eat?"
"Yes. They are very good, and good for you."
"Reyann, these contain hallucinogens."
She looked at him puzzled.
"Drugs. Bad drugs. These are not good for you at all."
"Oh, no, they are very good for you. You should try them. Dr. Rictor says—"
"No, Reyann, they do things to your mind." He grabbed her by the shoulders. "They make you believe what you want to believe. They make you see what you want to see—or what others want you to see." He let go of her then and glanced around as if looking for an invisible enemy. "Their spores must be in the air. We have to get you out of here."
She laughed. "But that's silly. This is my home."
"You don't understand. Rictor is a mad man."
"No, Kendall, I think it is you who does not understand. Not yet, anyway." She leaned up and kissed him again, more forcefully. Her lips—the oils on her skin—must be saturated with the spores.
It took all of his strength just to push her away. "No, this is wrong. I need to find my men." He hurried out into the hallway.
In the filtered daylight he tried to find his way back. Strangely, as he walked, he began to understand the intricacies of the monastery's structure, as if his mind had begun to assemble a great puzzle. The hallways ran in concentric circles, outer passages leading from rooms of less importance—rooms for chores and sleep—to the great cathedral—a high-ceilinged temple chamber, where the daily prayers were no doubt performed. McDivett attributed this insight to his training, but there was more to it than that. For when he came to the next turn, somehow he already knew what would be beyond it, though he was sure he hadn't passed this way before.
McDivett stood in the grand front entranceway that lay behind the heavy wooden gate. He took a moment to rest as he gazed about in awe.
The gate's internal mechanism consisted of a remarkable pulley system with gears the size of water wheels. It was ingenious. Another, smaller series of pulleys were mounted to the floor. Beside it sat a long coil of wrist-thick hemp rope—Rictor's archaic yet effective method to haul the larger objects inside. McDivett searched among the assorted refuse and found the scorched remains of the F1 fighter jet, its pieces a pile of shorn metal and electronics. The seats and other recyclable material had been removed. There was blood on the console of the instrument panel—too much for simple injuries. He looked away in disgust and grieved for the lost pilots. Near the gate itself sat the Humvee, still intact.
"The desert is like the sea...."
McDivett turned. Stone stairways ran up the walls on either side of the room to a second story balcony, where Rictor stood looking down.
"It washes up many things upon its great sandy shore... machinery... people... messages in bottles from lost Gods."
"Where are they, Rictor? Did they survive? What did you do with them? And where are my men?" McDivett's eyes searched the mounds of scrap for a weapon—a steel rod, a piece of sheet metal—anything to gain an upper hand.
"Your 'men,' as you put it, have settled in quite comfortably. As for the pilots, I'm afraid they couldn't be saved."
"Then release the bodies. Let them have a proper burial."
Rictor bowed his head. "Of course, Sergeant. In due time. First, I have something to show you."
"No more games, Rictor!" shouted McDivett, but Rictor had disappeared into the shadows.
McDivett grabbed a foot-long piece of jagged metal plating and stuffed it into his flak-jacket, before taking one of the stone stairways two steps at a time. When he reached the top he found an entrance to a dimly-lit passageway. Rictor was twenty meters ahead holding a torch light.
"This way, Sergeant." Rictor rounded a corner, pulling the light with him.
McDivett followed. He had no other choice.
The way led first along a narrow passageway, then down worn stone steps through several levels, down into the rough-hewn corridors of the catacombs Reyann had spoken of earlier. McDivett bent to keep his head from scraping on the low ceiling. For all he knew, Rictor could be leading him blindly to a place from which he would never return. But the deeper they penetrated the catacombs, the less afraid McDivett became. It was as if he were retracing a dream he had once had. He ran a finger along the slippery wall. The substance glowed like honey and he placed it into his mouth. It had no taste at all. He imagined cherry, his favorite, and suddenly his mouth filled with the flavor.
At last, the corridor opened up onto a vast underground grotto. Its floor was covered from edge to edge with a velvety carpet of luminous fungi. Like miniature fields, footpaths separated the different colored sections which ran from a bold, almost sulfur-looking yellow to a wine-dyed indigo, and every color of the spectrum in-between. At the center of the room was a circular pool like a wishing well, its surface so smooth it appeared to be made of glass. McDivett could imagine Reyann down here, bending among the rows like some flower child Alice In Wonderland harvesting the latest crop of dreams.
"Flesh of the Gods," Rictor said with reverence. "Sergeant, did you know that in some Central American tribes only the wisemen—shaman, they are called—are allowed to consume the 'Flesh of the Gods'?"
For the first time McDivett saw Rictor's face up close. His eyes were the cold blue of Arctic ice. His skin, though pale, was smooth and youthful. His expression was one of innocence, almost child-like. But deep within, McDivett could divine that the man was indeed insane.
"When I left the U.S. in 1968, it was to get away from all the misery our country had just experienced—the murders of Kennedy and King, the war in Vietnam. I wanted to make a difference, so I volunteered for missionary work and was sent to help the starving people of Bangladesh. It was there that I met Reyann's parents. They, in turn, introduced me into The Cult of the Magi. It was written that an ancient stone fortress existed in the desert of Iraq, built by the followers of Zoroaster, but long abandoned and lost to the sand. Zoroaster, himself, was said to have stayed in these very catacombs for seven years before receiving the revelations which gave him hold of the various elements of the cosmos."
The cadence of Rictor's voice was like the gentle flow a river, soothing and hypnotic. McDivett could do nothing but listen as he continued to gaze at the mushroom fields, their colors blending, changing hues before his eyes.
"And so on one warm August night it was decided, and our group left our futile endeavors behind and set out across India. We traveled by train, by jeep, and even by pack camel, through Pakistan and into Iran, over the Zagros Mountains, and finally into the desert of Southern Iraq. We nearly died a hundred times—from hunger, thirst and conflict—but faith in the form of a calling, like a magnetic compass in our souls, or like a song on the wind, kept us moving. With few provisions remaining we decided to camp in the shadow of a particularly steep dune. Little did we know that the entrance to our future was only 100 feet away."
Rictor fell silent for a moment. He too gazed at the beauty and wonder of the grotto. "Tell me, Sergeant, which would you rather have—the world above, filled with hatred and strife, or the one inside these walls, filled with all the pleasures the world has ever known?"
McDivett shook his head. For a moment he lost his equilibrium. Rictor held him upright. A multitude of thoughts and emotions swirled before his eyes.
"Still searching, I see." Rictor pulled his hand away from McDivett's shoulder. "Come, it's time to rejoin your men."
Rictor led him back through the catacombs and up into the basement level of the monastery. The passageways were once again black, lit only occasionally by firelight. Daytime must have passed. How long had they been down in the catacombs? McDivett wondered to himself. How far had they traveled? His mind was running too slow for his own thoughts. He could only concentrate on the moment before him.
He followed Rictor into a long room with a series of smaller cubicles—sleep quarters, presumably. A cloth curtain hung down from each opening.
"Are you ready now, Sergeant, to see your men in the context of their desires?"
McDivett nodded. Rictor pulled back the curtain on one of the cubicles.
Inside, was Estevez—Corporal Mauricio Estevez—whose loyalty and patriotism was only matched by his deeply-held religious beliefs. The young man knelt before a small shrine made of Christ figures carved from candle wax, repeating prayer after prayer.
"Corporal?" called McDivett.
Estevez turned to look up. His large brown eyes were ringed by dark circles. He crossed himself and held his hands up to McDivett. "Bless me father for I have sinned. Bless me father for I have sinned." Spittle flew from his lips as his voice grew louder.
"Corporal, that's enough."
"Bless me father for I have sinned!" He crawled toward McDivett on his knees, his hands held in supplication.
"He can't hear you, Sergeant. He is in 'the thrall,' as they say."
"Bless me father for I have sinned!" Estevez screamed, his face contorted with guilt.
McDivett let the curtain fall back into place and moved on.
The next cubicle was occupied by Pvt. Beau Murphy. The young Georgia native was sprawled naked on a bed of wall-to-wall cushions flanked by two of the young Cult daughters. One of the young women snuggled near Murphy's waist and held his prowess in her hand, to which she slowly applied her tongue. The other young woman, her back to McDivett, straddled Murphy's face and was uttering soft coos of ecstasy. The first woman looked up, a sedated look of satisfaction weighing heavily in her eyes. She curled her finger in McDivett's direction and beckoned him forward.
McDivett let the curtain drop without a word.
The third cubicle contained the most disheartening scene of all. Simms—Pvt. Antwon Simms—perhaps the strongest young man McDivett had ever encountered, sat alone in a drug-drunk, soul-stoned stupor. Simms raised his head. A wide grin painted his face. "Sarge... Sarge, man... Isn't it beautiful?" he asked, his eyes floating on some inward-looking sea. "It's so beautiful..." His large hands delicately pulled at the air, manipulating a cobweb strand. It could have been a golden fairy sprite in Simms' eyes for all McDivett knew.
"At ease," he told the soldier and let the curtain mask the scene.
"You see, Sergeant, it's all about control. Religion—control over the spirit. Sex—control over the body. Drugs—control over the mind."
Behind every curtain, McDivett witnessed the proof of what Rictor claimed...
A man hard at work reproducing the pages of the Koran in miniature on the walls and ceiling using only a safety pin and his own blood...
Another man laughing hysterically at nothing but his own laughter...
In one of the last cubicles he found Reyann and another young woman of similar complexion and build, arms and legs entwined in a human caduceus, their muscles undulating beneath an oily sheen.
McDivett turned to Rictor. "Why am I not in one of these rooms indulging in my own private fantasy?"
"Ah, that is because the entrance to your own personal heaven, Sergeant, is power, and power has control over... everything." Rictor's eyes lit up. "That is why there can only be one of us."
Rictor produced a long thin fencing epee and adopted a fighting stance. McDivett almost laughed... until Rictor lunged forward and thrust the tip of the epee into the upper part of his chest. Pain shot through his body. McDivett watched as the sword withdrew from his flak jacket like a needle injection. Luckily, the puncture was just above his lung.
"But I thought..."
Rictor laughed. "Don't think, Sergeant, it will be the death of you." The doctor lunged again. This time McDivett was ready.
The sergeant rolled onto the stone floor. He gained his feet and barely escaped another deadly lunge from the doctor. The momentum carried Rictor forward and McDivett grabbed the epee with his hands and wrenched it free. Rictor fell to the ground. But when McDivett turned the weapon on him, it suddenly transformed into a large peacock feather.
McDivett felt his shoulder. No blood, no pain. He hadn't been injured after all.
The skirmish had brought some of the Cult members out of their cubicles. They stood staring with glazed eyes. One began to clap, which caused the others to join in. A chant erupted. "Ric-tor... Ric-tor..."
Rictor reached into his robe and pulled out a handgun. "This time, Sergeant, it's real. A bullet will pierce your heart and you will die."
"I wish I could believe you—"
Before McDivett could finish his sentence, Rictor pulled the trigger. The gun kicked, but instead of a bullet, a dove with wings of the purest white flew from the chamber and arced up toward the ceiling where it circled once before heading off into parts unknown.
The chant of "Rictor" softened, the gathered group stood dumbfounded, their eyes searching for the elusive dove.
Rictor was unfazed, however. In fact, his smile grew wider. "Touché," he said and leaped into the air like a tiger toward McDivett, the fingers of each hand attenuating to long serrated-edged claws.
"Kendall!"
The shout came from Reyann. Her outburst caused Rictor to turn momentarily, which allowed McDivett to withdraw the very real piece of metal plating from his flak jacket.
Time suddenly halted, and in that instant, McDivett saw the entire history of the fortress as if played out on his own internal movie reel...
Its early beginnings as a monastery...
The plague of insanity that had descended upon the monks, transforming their heaven into a hell on earth...
The howling, wind-born storm that came and buried the monastery's position but not its memory...
The Cult's arrival, when blood once again graced the ancient stone floors, as murder and debauchery followed in an orgiastic feast that included both ritual sacrifice and cannibalism...
McDivett's last vision was of two days earlier where he could see the downed fighter pilots' bodies drawn and quartered and roasted to a tender delicacy, sitting in a bath of thick mushroom gravy, and served to the hungry members...
Rictor appeared to freeze in mid-air before him. The man's claws had retracted and he hung, arms open, neck exposed, a look of serene contentment on his face. When McDivett swung his weapon, time regained its normal speed again.
In a flash the jagged piece of metal tore a line across Rictor's neck. The robed doctor fell in a heap upon the stone floor, his jugular severed.
The room fell silent.
McDivett stared as Rictor's blood escaped his body in rivulets of iridescent gold and silver. The doctor tried to lift his head, his eyes searching. McDivett leaned over him. The doctor looked into his eyes and his face was pure, his relief undeniable. "Auspicious, indeed," he coughed and then expired.
The makeshift blade, which lay beside him, suddenly transformed into a small black snake and wriggled into the dead man's body. McDivett watched as the thing moved beneath Rictor's skin, burrowing deeper until he could see it no more.
A new chant began, "Ken-dall... Ken-dall... Ken-dall...," with Reyann leading the call.
McDivett stepped back as the Cult—Simms, Murphy and Estevez now included—horded in around Rictor's body. They lapped at the dead man's blood, drinking it as if it were a magic elixir. And as the drinking became more frenzied, teeth tore into flesh, hands pulled bone from bone. The orgy of love and death continued until nothing remained but a glistening piece of jagged metal on the floor.
McDivett watched it all through newly forged eyes. He could feel the lost spirits of the ancients absorb into his skin like moisture, fomenting new passions, new desires. The world of the monastery was now his, as were the people who inhabited it.
His reign would be powerful; the nights without end.