Chapter 8

SOME WOULD THINK IT appropriate that Alexandra would begin her career as a professional adventure photographer at the designated site for the end of the world. The fortified city of Megiddo dated back to antiquity and had flourished for centuries along the trading routes connecting Egypt and Mesopotamia. Egyptian Pharaoh Thutmose III had won the first battle in recorded history at its walls in 1479 B.C. It was razed and rebuilt many times before its ultimate submission at the hands of the Persians in 586 B.C. All that remained was an expansive mound of dirt, what archeologists called a “tel.” Assumed buried within this hill were fabled artifacts of ancient history.

Yet, according to the Book of Revelation, a final apocalyptic battle remained to be waged on a date undetermined, here at Armageddon.

It was this story that Professor Philip Langstaffe Ord-Guy shared with his guests. Their surroundings were nothing like Alexandra had imagined. When envisioning Palestine, what came to mind were ruined temples, arid deserts, and Bedouin camel caravans. The Jezreel Valley, however, spread lush in thriving croplands. The Carmel Range filled the skyline, and it all looked little different from summertime Montana. Outfitted in light-weight desert garb of a linen jacket and skirt, with a black tie flapping over her white shirt, she felt terribly unsporty. Even her French pith helmet and leather boots were wrong for the setting.

The excavation was in its infancy. The camp comprised six canvas tents pitched around a shared firepit. One permanent structure of flimsy construction stood near the road containing bunks for the workers, tool sheds, and artifact rooms. A latrine was dug downwind, a parsimonious distance off. The archeology team constituted four graduate students who busied themselves kicking a soccer ball, a dozen Arabs away for a religious holiday, and a sour-faced assistant named Sigmund Coyle.

Ord-Guy seemed qualified for his role. Oxford-educated, he had headed up digs from Syria to Egypt. Alexandra thought he looked like an older reflection of Kimball with his short-cropped hair and disciplined eyes, but the professor was of a thinner build and his spectacles gave off the rightful impression of a scholar.

Alexandra assumed she would photograph sherds of ceramic pottery and secreted burial chambers, yet Ord-Guy stated they could expect no such bounties for years. They reached the top strata of Tel Megiddo, which measured out at two hundred feet in height and covered thirty-five acres.

“Knowing what I’ve seen and heard,” Alexandra said, “I’m lost as to why the university hired me.”

Ord-Guy lifted a pickax leaning upon a dirt sifter. “It is for the wishes of our financier, John D. Rockefeller Junior. His wife Abigail read of your travels in Papua and convinced him having a female join the excavation would set an example for future archaeologists.”

Alexandra was impressed. Ord-Guy could even make the fact she was here as a token sound principled. She whispered to Kimball, “I fear that Commander Dyott is right about everything.”

“Abigail is awaiting news of your arrival,” Ord-Guy said. “Your camera, please.”

“Never disappoint a millionairess!” Alexandra passed it over. In return, he handed over the pickax. She offered her most triumphant explorer’s pose. “Limburger cheeeese!”

“Perfect!” Ord-Guy went to a corner of the mound. “We shall start tomorrow with photographs of the tel taken from superior height.”

Ord-Guy chuckled. He pointed down. Spread across a clearing was a deflated hot air balloon. “I believe it’s in working condition.”

Ord-Guy said, “While unaware if I’m to be the first to use a balloon in this capacity, you will assuredly go down in history as the first female to conduct archaeological aerial photography.”

Alexandra felt dazzled. “Professor, have you considered a grid for photos taken two hundred feet up?”

“A smashing idea! Sigmund, do we have rope enough to dissect the entire tel? A layout of four-squared would suffice.”

“Let’s rile those lollygaggers off the pitch and get some sweat out of them. On the hop!”

They left the mound, with Ord-Guy and Coyle breaking off to gather the lads. Alexandra dipped into her tent. Other than her suitcases, it held a foldable cot, a lantern, and a washbasin. She lifted a set of car keys off her blanket and joined Kimball to say farewell, determined not to fuss over his departure.

He tried to start the engine, but it coughed and sputtered. Further attempts fared no better. He gave her a toying look. “Sand in the system. It happens when one struggles to keep on the roads.”

Alexandra was unapologetic. “I warned of my poor driving. You should have won the race.”

That evening, she joined Ord-Guy, Coyle, and Kimball as they lounged on Roorkhee campaign chairs around the firepit. It was the type of night Alexandra felt her favorite company: warm, still, and absent of artificial light. With the advent of electricity, people were forgetting the genuine allure of the galaxy left to silence.

The group heard out Ord-Guy’s theoretical debate if one could assume a ripple effect on history, stemming from Heinrich Schliemann’s discovery of ancient Troy in 1878. Prior to the find, the legendary city was a forgotten land in a mythological war set in a Homeric tale. But in proof of its existence, Ord-Guy posited that the cunning ploy of the wooden horse, the beauty of Helen, and the gods of the Iliad were literal.

Coyle listened to the homily grudgingly, Kimball did so fascinated, while Alexandra reconsidered her poorly reasoned limit on ouzo consumption. Once the tale was concluded, the graduate students could be heard lost to the darkness, grunting to their labors of lugging pikes up the steep path.

“I’ve received a cable,” Ord-Guy said, “telling of an opportune development at a prior dig.”

“The earthquake has produced a fissure, apparently revealing a hidden antechamber,” Ord-Guy elaborated.

Alexandra and Kimball exchanged glances, both finding comfort they were not singular in camp unfamiliar with the term.

Ord-Guy tried to oblige. “All cultures have verbal or written stories that are sacred cornerstones of their respective civilizations, but proof is often lacking. Mankind is now jilting tales of yore. If Noah built a great ark, it needs discovery upon Mount Ararat, or it will render scripture as mere poppycock!”

Alexandra and Kimball exchanged glances, both finding comfort they were not singular in camp suspecting Ord-Guy held no tolerance for ouzo. She asked, “And the Nephilim part?”

“I had this same conversation with a gifted protégé in 1913 while on a dig in Carchemish.” Ord-Guy chortled. “I do not deem to boast, but that lad was T. E. Lawrence.”

A second witness! Alexandra placed aside any care about these mysterious Nephilim things. “I’ve been told that Mister Lawrence holds a low military rank under the pseudonym ‘John Hume Ross.’”

Alexandra reached over and tore the ouzo bottle from Kimball’s grip. She poured herself and her newfound ally a nightcap. “Mazel tov, professor, with a Mashallah to boot.”

Ord-Guy took down the shot. “I’m a man of science and faith. I believe in something more than a vacuous origin to the universe, but demand proof, damn it! I’m engaged in biblical archaeology to find evidence proving the veracity of the Old Testament. Megiddo holds no such answers, but the site in the Valley of Sorek... Mahatyam.”

Ord-Guy slumped in his chair, having talked himself into unconsciousness. Alexandra pointed at Kimball, coaxing him to kick the professor so they could get their answers.

“Nephilim is the Hebrew word for ‘The Fallen,’” Coyle dryly stated. “The giants in the Book of Genesis. They were the soiled offspring of the daughters of man and fallen angels.”

Coyle shrugged. “It is in ancient Philistia. The most fabled Nephilim were Goliath and—”

“—Og, the Amorite king of Bashan,” Coyle finished, annoyed by the interruption.

“So was Abraham Lincoln. Also, not Nephilim,” said Coyle. “The story goes the demonic seeding of his children so angered God, that He flushed the earth clean with the Great Flood. The professor believes that finding the remains of one Nephilim will change the world forever.”

Alexandra noted Coyle’s contempt for his boss and she did not care for the cut of his jib. She said, “If such were found, then the professor’s ripple theory would strike an unsettling impact in Palestine. If Goliath was factually proven, then David must be true. And if David existed, so too, the Kingdom of Israel with Jerusalem as its capital.”

Kimball said, “I can see Zionists using such evidence as proof this is truly the Jewish homeland. A spark for the tinderbox.”

Once he departed, Alexandra spent an hour alone looking into the crackling fire. She discreetly rubbed her nether region and fantasized over nubile young women coupling with demons.

ALEXANDRA ILLYRIA BATHENBROOK—first female to conduct archaeological aerial photography. It would certainly qualify as a flattering addendum to her obituary commemorative, though a tad wordy to fit across the tombstone. Many pioneers in hot air ballooning had found innovative ways to leave more tragic footnotes ever since Joseph and Jacques Montgolfier constructed a prototype in 1782 capable of allowing mankind to touch the heavens. Introducing hydrogen had not helped, with the French particularly adept at blowing themselves up.

Pilâtre de Rozier—first man to fly in 1783 and first to die in flight, 1785. Sophie Blanchard—first soloist female aeronaut in 1804 and the first female to blow herself up doing so, 1819. S.A. Andrées—first to lead a balloon expedition into the Arctic Circle in 1897 and the first to freeze to death upon crashing, 1897...

A robust breeze was kicking up on an otherwise pristine Levantine daybreak. A breakfast of plain yogurt and maqluba was yet digested as Alexandra sorted over her gear. She kept reminding herself to pee before liftoff. She sulked in hearing the engine of Kimball’s car finally turn over and lamented not sneaking out under cover of darkness to flatten its tires. He held the maturity needed in a man to keep her grounded and the humility to take it in stride when he would fail.

Barlow, the missing mechanic, arrived on a motorcycle, quickly introduced himself, and left to fill the balloon and apply last-minute repairs to render it serviceable. Alexandra was relieved that he appeared sober and was an American. He had donated a leather aviator’s cap and goggles for her to wear once aloft.

She flipped open her tent’s flap and smiled at Kimball. “I try to be. I’m almost ready.”

The flap dropped back down. After ten minutes, she joined him. He asked, “You’re really going to do it?”

“I’ve looked things over. The mechanic says Ord-Guy purchased the balloon for a song from the military, as it’s old stock, missing its burners, and was set for disposal.”

Alexandra failed to see his point. “The balloon is tethered to the ground. I’ll go up, take photos, and come back down. I’ve been in a balloon before. When I was a girl, my family visited Columbia Gardens in Butte. We all went up together in one, perhaps fifty feet.”

Ord-Guy eventually joined them in high spirits, quoting Socrates. “‘Man must rise above the Earth—only thus will he fully understand the world in which he lives.’ We are off!”

They proceeded around the tel to where the balloon was rising into the air. A sputtering gas generator making a terrible racket continued powering a large fan. The khaki-colored envelope was nearly full, and the captured air was being heated via its hastily installed burners. Ord-Guy reviewed the schematics for Alexandra to capture photographs of each of the sixteen squared-off grids at a height of two hundred feet, and then a more expansive focus from five hundred. The balloon’s rectangular wicker basket was built to accommodate eight individuals.

Sturdy line encased the envelope like a fishing net, with but a few noticeable omissions to the webbing. Two burners were secured above the basket and kicking up flames.

Barlow wiped grit off his hands. He waved Alexandra closer and started pointing at things. “This altimeter displays altitude. Two tanks of fuel and two sandbags to balance them out.”

“These burners I made myself. Just pull this chain on the blast valve to rise.” The flames kicked higher when she did so. “I used parts of an old flamethrower to put it all together.”

“American ingenuity on display,” Alexandra stated with approval. She took his hand and straddled the lip of the basket to board. “I come from Montana, Mister Barlow. What say you?”

“You are clearly gifted at making things work. Are you familiar with the United Drug Company and the operational mechanics of their Electrex hair curler? I can’t grasp its use.”

“I’ll have it, and you, purring in no time.” He winked. Eight braided uprights secured the basket to the envelope. Kimball pointed out that one rope was fraying. Barlow shrugged. “She’s ready to go!”

“I entrusted Coyle to break the news, and yet again, he has failed me. He was to be Alexandra’s second but was dispatched to Jerusalem. We need two to ensure even weight distribution.”

“What about the lollygagging collegians?” Kimball questioned. “One must surely be eager to join in?”

“Indubitably,” Ord-Guy acknowledged. “Never underestimate the foolhardiness of youth. However, I signed waivers promising they would not be engaged in unduly hazardous duties.”

“See to it I don’t fall out of this thing.” Alexandra clapped as Kimball climbed aboard. “Good show!”

It struck Alexandra that she had foregone Lindbergh’s golden rule. She sang Irving Berlin’s “Blue Skies” for the balloon’s entire ascent, which eased Kimball’s grip on the basket rim. They framed a plan for him to man the burners while she worked her camera. The breeze pushed them directly over the tel.

The series of photographs taken at two hundred and five hundred feet went slowly. Because of the tel’s immense size, the collegians needed to function as central locus markers in sixteen grids, so she could pinpoint separate shots within each. Once developed, Ord-Guy would assemble the images into one master map.

Alexandra reloaded her Leica-1, placing another completed roll of film into a cylinder. The balloon ascended and settled at one thousand feet. Those on the ground appeared as diminutive dots. She conducted photography at will to capture any anomalies in the landscape that would be otherwise untendered by the earthbound eye.

Little crackles pinged the air. They came from a ruined stone house along a hillside. She leaned over the rim to better inspect.

Alexandra jolted forward and teetered at the navel—feet kicking air and momentum favoring a toss overboard. Kimball grappled her waist and pulled her back in. Her backside crashed into his pelvis. He was unmistakably aroused.

Alexandra flicked her rescuer’s arms free from her hips and turned fiercely to face him. Flustered, she huffed, “Detective Kimball... sheath your weapon!”

“I believe Ursula cracked my lower spine. Any undulations are purely medicinal.” Alexandra patted down her clothing and returned to her side of the basket. She lifted the binoculars. Four Arabs were idling at the ruins. One had a rifle. Another one waved up to her.

After liftoff, the generator had been switched to power the winch. With the racket it made, no one below seemed aware of the gunfire. She said, “We should warn the camp. Do you have a pen?”

Alexandra claimed a lipstick case from her satchel and hastily sketched a diagram of the tel and the area from which the Arabs were firing. She concluded with a narrative about what was transpiring.

“Check!” Alexandra sat and wrestled off her boots. She stuffed the note deep inside one and handed it to Kimball. “Try to hit one of the lads. The redhead, preferably. He ogles me.”

Kimball let it go and watched it descend. He jerked back after a bullet clipped the basket and then refocused the binoculars to gauge his success. “Missed the redhead, but they’re running to it.”

Before tossing it, Kimball lifted the note free out of curiosity. Written in red lipstick was “Don’t lose the first boot. Very expensive.” He shook his head and tossed it overboard.

Alexandra rose and snatched the binoculars. Pandemonium was finally afoot. She had noticed along the drive from Haifa that the earthquake had downed telephone poles, and this had left the camp temporarily incommunicado with the outside world. She watched the activity below and related the play-by-play to Kimball. Another armed Arab joined in, and a bullet zinged by.

“One lad just came out of Barlow’s tent with a rifle. Another is speeding away on a motorcycle... Ord-Guy has poured another shot of ouzo... Barlow is taking up position and firing back!”

Kimball seized the glasses. “Barlow’s loosened the slack and is pointing up.” He fired the burners, and they rocketed skyward. The tether tensed at full extension. The altimeter read two thousand feet and the Mediterranean Sea came into distant view.

Alexandra said, “These Arabs have made the same mistake that haunted Koos de la Rey at Elands River. They should have waited for us to descend. We’re surely safe this high.” She took the binoculars to scan the shoreline. “Let’s see how Ursula is doing with wave riding.”

Spotting any individual at their range was inconceivable, though Ursula offered a sizeable target. Kimball was learning to play along with her silly notions. “Call me when you spot her.”

Kimball cursed and lifted a foldable knife from his pocket. He leaned over the rim to cut free the balloon, but it was impossible. The braided rope would require continuous hatchet blows to break apart. They started losing altitude.

Rather than go for the rope horizontally, he went right down the throat with the next two shots. It began to fray. Stretched to full capacity, he heatedly scraped the blade across the wound until the twines fell away. It finally snapped.

With only one tether, the wind took command and tilted them sideways. Kimball spiked the burners to straighten them out, but at this rate, their fuel wouldn’t last much longer.

He crossed to the opposite rim but stepped back when the basket lilted. The second ring was directly under the damaged upright and too compromised to hold his weight. He maneuvered to the far corner, aimed, and spent his final four bullets.

He again fired the burners, lost over what to do next. They were close to entering a freefall that nothing could remedy.

While Kimball loaded the far corner with the sandbags and tanks as a counterweight, she removed her linen jacket and freed her shirt from her skirt. He took a seat and pressed himself into the sunken side of the basket. Now the tricky part...

Alexandra turned and straddled Kimble. She waited for him to lock in her ankles before taking a seat on the rim.

With her knee pits clasping the rim as if a trapeze artist, Alexandra grabbed the tether and began carving away. She gripped the knife so fiercely that her hand cramped after a few minutes. She was desperate with tears when it finally snapped free.

Alexandra rocked to gather momentum, tightened every muscle of her core, and stretched her arms up for the basket’s lip.

With another burst, she grasped the rim tighter, but had no leverage to pull herself up.

Alexandra was nearing surrender, doubtful any strength remained for one final and desperate attempt at salvation.