Return to Atlantis_A Novel

  Eddie regarded the oak doors with concern as the gunfire stopped. “Definitely don’t think we want to go in there.” The pitch of the helicopter’s engine changed, suggesting that it was circling the building.

  Looking for more targets.

  “That doesn’t leave us with many options,” Nina replied. There was another, single door in the corridor wall on their side of the chasm, but reaching it would require going back down the dangerous slope before hopping onto the stub of a beam at what had been floor level. She retrieved the case. “Keep hold of my hand until I can jump across.”

  “For Christ’s sake, just leave the case, will you?” He frowned. “Wait, what’s in it? It’s those fucking statues, isn’t it!”

  “Yeah, and after everything I’ve been through to get them I’m not letting go of them now.”

  “After all the trouble they’ve caused, the world’ll be well rid of them,” he countered. “Give ’em here.”

  “No, Eddie,” Nina insisted, clutching the handle more tightly. “I don’t have time to explain right now, but they’re a part of something big—something amazing. I have to find out what it is.”

  He shook his head. “No, you—”

  “You asked me to trust you a minute ago,” she cut in firmly. “Well, trust me. Please, Eddie. It’s very important.”

  “All bloody right,” he said after a moment. “I won’t smash ’em, I promise. Now get moving, will you? If that chopper comes back—”

  “I’m moving, I’m moving,” she protested, extending her free hand to him and starting down the slope. He held on to her, leaning forward as far as he dared. She neared the broken beam and took a deep breath, swinging the case in her hand. “Okay, and a-one, a-two, and a-three!”

  Return to Atlantis is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2012 by Andy McDermott

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in the United Kingdom as Temple of the Gods by Headline Publishing Group, a Hachette U.K. company.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-53575-7

  Cover design: adapted from Blacksheep Design by Carlos Beltrán

  Cover photographs: © Funkystock (temple) ; © Alexis Rosenfeld (research submarine)

  www.bantamdell.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  PROLOGUE

  The ocean had no name, nor did the gnarled land rising from it. There was no one to name them. In time there would be, after the scarred primordial world had completed another four billion orbits of its sun, but for now it was utterly barren. The planet could not even truly be said to be dead; it had never seen life.

  Yet.

  Had people from that far future somehow been able to stand on the nameless obsidian sands, they would have seen a world very different from the one they knew, countless volcanoes spewing smoke and ash into the sky. This was a landscape in flux, growing literally by the day as the planet’s molten core forced itself outward through the cracks in its crust.

  The hypothetical observers would have found their glimpses of the heavens through the black clouds just as unfamiliar as the world beneath them. Above was an almost constant fireworks display of bright lines searing across the sky. Meteors: lumps of rock and rubble too small to survive the transition from the vacuum of space, atmospheric friction incinerating the building blocks of the still-youthful solar system miles above the ground.

  But the larger an incoming meteor, the greater its chances of surviving the fall.

  Among the fleeting streaks of fire was something brighter. Not a line, but a shimmering point of light, seemingly unmoving. In fact, it was traveling at over ten miles per second. Its stillness was an optical illusion—it was heading straight for the black beach like a bullet fired from the stars.

  The light flared. The rock was surrounded by a searing shock wave of plasma as it plowed deeper into the atmosphere, its outer layers fragmenting and shedding in its wake. But it was large enough to guarantee that no matter how much mass was burned away, it would hit the ground. An impact and explosion powerful enough to obliterate everything within a radius of tens of miles should have been inevitable.

  Until something extraordinary happened.

  The meteor flared again, only this time the flash was an electric blue, not a fiery red. More flashes followed, but not from the plunging rock. They came from the sky around it, great bolts of lightning lancing to the ground. The observers, had they existed, would have noticed a distinct pattern to these bolts, as if they were being channeled along the lines of some natural force.

  And the rock began to slow.

  This was more than the braking effect of the atmosphere. The meteor was losing speed in almost direct proportion to the growing intensity of the lightning flashes. It was as though the world below were trying to cushion its fall … or push it away.

  But it was too late for that. Even as the electrical blizzard raged around it, the meteor continued its descent. Slowing, still slowing, but not enough—

  It hit the beach at several times the speed of sound, unleashing the same energy as a small nuclear bomb. A blinding flash lit the volcanic landscape, an expanding wall of fire racing out from the point of impact. Tens of thousands of tons of pulverized bedrock were blasted skyward. But even though it was now only a small fraction of the size it had been minutes earlier, the new arrival from the infinite depths of space, glowing red hot at the bottom of the newly created crater, was still over a hundred feet across.

  Then the ocean found it.

  Water gushed over the crater’s lip, the sea greedily surging in to claim the new space. The churning wave front crashed against the meteorite—and another explosion shook the beach, outer layers of burning rock shattering in a swelling cloud of steam as they were suddenly cooled.

  Gradually, stillness returned. The lightning died down, dark clouds rolling in to repair the tear in their blanket. Before long, the only movement was the eternal slosh of th
e waves.

  What remained of the meteorite at the bottom of the new lagoon was now even smaller, only the heart of the traveler remaining intact. But for the first time in unknown ages, that core of strange, purple stone was exposed to something other than compressed rock or the harsh emptiness of space. Water, working its way into every exposed crack to find whatever was within.

  It took time, six whole days, before anything happened. Even then, the time-traveling observers would have needed a microscope to see it, and still been profoundly unimpressed. A tiny bubble, the product of chemical processes at work within the ragged rock, broke free and rose to the water’s surface, to be instantly lost among the foaming waves. It was not the most inspiring beginning.

  But it was a beginning.

  Life had arrived on Planet Earth.

  ONE

  Zimbabwe

  Four Billion Years Later

  The heat and stench were as inescapable as the cell itself. The thick stone and clay walls of the former pioneer fort trapped warmth like a kiln, and the small, stoutly barred window providing the only ventilation opened out almost directly onto the row of latrines at one side of the prison’s central courtyard.

  Fort Helena. Hell on earth for those unfortunates imprisoned within by the country’s despotic regime.

  A bearded man sat statue-like in one dirty corner of the gloomy cell; his stillness partly because of the cloying heat, and partly because each movement brought pain. He had been delivered to the prison a day earlier, and as a welcoming gift given a beating by a group of guards before being taken to a dark room where a grinning man had provided him with a hands-on demonstration of some of the numerous instruments of torture at his disposal. Just a sample, he had been promised. A full show would soon follow.

  Someone else was in the torture chamber now, screams echoing through the passages. The guards had made a point of dragging the victim past the bearded man’s cell so that he would hear the desperate pleas for mercy. Another sample, a demonstration. You’re next.

  A new sound, this from outside. A rising mechanical thrum—an approaching helicopter.

  The man stirred, painfully levering himself upright and going to the little window. He ignored the foul smell from the latrines, narrowing his eyes against the harsh daylight as he watched uniformed men hurry into the courtyard to form an honor guard. Behind them came the prison’s governor, a squat, toad-faced man in small gold-rimmed glasses. From his look of apprehension, it was clear that the new arrival was important.

  The prisoner tensed. He knew who was aboard the helicopter.

  Someone with very good reasons to hate him.

  Dust and grit swirled as the helicopter descended. It was an elderly aircraft, a French-built Alouette III light utility chopper converted to what was known as “G-Car” specification by the addition of a pair of machine guns. A veteran of the civil war that led to Rhodesia’s becoming Zimbabwe in 1980 … now being used as VIP transport for a man who fought in that war as a youth, gaining a nickname that he retained with pride to this day.

  Gamba Boodu. “The Butcher.”

  A guard opened the cabin door and Boodu stepped out, head high as if daring the still-whirling rotor blades above him to strike. Despite the baking temperatures, he wore a long black greatcoat over an immaculately fitted suit, the coat’s hem flapping in the downdraft as he strode across the courtyard to the governor. Sunlight glinted off gold: a large ring on the middle finger of his right hand, inset with a sparkling emerald. That same hand held an object that he swung like a walking stick, its end stabbing into the ground with each step.

  A machete, its handle decorated with lines of gold.

  The bearded man remembered the weapon well. Some years earlier, he had wrested it from the militia leader and used it against him. The result was a deep, V-shaped line of pink against the Zimbabwean’s dark skin, the scar the aftermath of a blow that had hacked clean through flesh to leave a bloody hole in his cheek like a second mouth.

  He smiled, very faintly. The injury was only a fraction of what a murderer and sadist like Boodu deserved, but among his many unpleasant characteristics was vanity: Every look in the mirror would provide some punishment.

  The smile disappeared as, formalities quickly over, Boodu and the governor marched into the prison buildings. They would soon come to the cell. The man returned to his filthy corner.

  Footsteps over the screams. The wooden cover of the peephole slid back; then came the clatter and rasp of a key in the lock. The heavy door swung open. A guard entered first, pistol aimed at the still figure, who responded with nothing more than a fractional raising of his eyes. Next came the governor, broad mouth curled into a smirk, and finally Boodu himself. The machete’s tip clinked down on the stone floor.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” said Boodu, his deep voice filled with gloating satisfaction. “Eddie Chase.”

  The balding Englishman lifted his head. “Ay up,” he said in a broad Yorkshire accent. “How’s the face?”

  The line of the scar shifted as Boodu’s expression tightened. “It has healed.”

  “So who’d you use as your plastic surgeon? Dr. Frankenstein?”

  The governor angrily clicked his fingers, and the guard booted Eddie hard in the side. He was about to deliver another blow when Boodu stopped him. “Leave him for me,” the Zimbabwean rumbled. He ground the machete’s point over the floor, the sound as unpleasant as nails on a blackboard. “I’m going to have some fun with him.”

  Eddie clutched his aching ribs. “You’re throwing us a big party with cakes and jelly?”

  “The only thing that will be thrown is your corpse, into a pit,” said Boodu. He rasped the blade over the flagstones again. “You caused me a lot of pain, Chase—professional and personal. Getting those criminals across the border made me look very bad in front of the president. It took me a long time to get back into his favor.”

  “Leaving the country ’cause you don’t want to have your family raped and murdered doesn’t make you a criminal.”

  Boodu snorted sarcastically. “If you oppose the president, you are a criminal. And my country has far too many of these criminals—this prison is full of them. They must be dealt with. Firmly.” He paused to listen to a shriek from the torture chamber. “Like your friend Strutter. A dog of war, spreading sedition, arranging for mercenaries to work for criminals. Mercenaries like you, Chase.”

  “Not anymore, mate. I had a career change.”

  “Yes, I heard. We do still get the international news here in Zimbabwe, even if it is filled with lies about our country. You married an American, no? I’m very sorry.” He laughed. “But I also heard that you got into some trouble, hey? You are wanted for murdering an Interpol officer! I was almost tempted to turn you over to them. But then”—he turned his face to display his mangled cheek to the prisoner—“I remembered that you gave me this.”

  “My pleasure,” Eddie said with a sardonic grin.

  “It will soon be my pleasure.” Boodu advanced, tapping the machete on the floor. He nodded to the guard. “Hold him.”

  Eddie was kicked again, harder than before. While the Yorkshireman gasped for breath, the guard hauled him up and shoved him against the wall.

  “Here,” said Boodu, mouth somewhere between a smile and a snarl. He brought up the blade and sliced through one of Eddie’s dirty, ragged sleeves—and the skin beneath. Dark blood blossomed on the fabric.

  Eddie choked back a growl of pain. “You fucking cockwipe!”

  “When I was told you had been arrested, I had it sharpened. Just for you.”

  “Hope you had it sterilized too,” said Eddie as the guard released him. “Wouldn’t want to catch anything.” He examined the cut. Boodu had been right about the machete’s sharpness; the African’s sweep had only been light, but still enough to open up a stinging gash in his arm.

  Boodu laughed again. “I’m disappointed in you, Chase. You knew you were a dead man if you ever came back to Zimbabwe—so I
congratulate you on your bravery, at least—but you were a fool to be so open about it. We were watching all of Strutter’s contacts. Did you really think we had forgotten you?” He gestured at Eddie’s face. “A beard! That was your disguise? Very stupid. You must have spent too long in America, with all the comforts of marriage—you forgot how the world really works.”

  “I didn’t forget,” said Eddie. Boodu was about to say something else when a prison official appeared at the door and indicated that he wished to speak to the governor. The two men exchanged muttered words, eyeing Eddie suspiciously, before the militia leader went over to join in the sotto voce discussion.

  Before long, Boodu let out a sharp “Ha!” and, swinging the machete almost nonchalantly, turned back to Eddie. “Where is it, Chase?”

  “Where’s what?” Eddie replied, face a portrait of innocence.

  “You have a radio transmitter. My pilot picked it up and then used the prison’s own receiver to triangulate its position. This cell.”

  The governor was already defensive. “We searched him when he was brought here.”

  “Not well enough,” said Boodu, his look suggesting there would be repercussions for the oversight. “So that’s why you were so open about coming here to rescue Strutter. You thought a homing beacon would help your friends rescue you if you got into trouble.” He shook his head. “Not from here, Chase. Not from Fort Helena. Now, where is it? Or will I have to cut you apart to find it?” He raised the machete again.

  With a defeated look, Eddie unfastened his trousers. “Don’t get all excited, lads,” he said as he reached into the back of his underwear and, straining in discomfort, extracted a small tubular object from where the sun didn’t shine. “Ow! Christ, you’ve no idea how uncomfy that was. Made my eyes water.”

  Boodu was about to take it from Eddie when he noticed the unsavory coating on its metal surface and instructed the guard to hold it instead. With an expression of great distaste, the man held it up for his superiors to examine. It was around three inches long and a little over an inch in diameter, one end rounded off. A red LED blinked at the other, flat end, a tiny switch beside it. “Does the switch turn it off?” Boodu asked Eddie. The Englishman nodded.