Copyright © 2017 Stuart Coates.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-5320-1577-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1578-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-1576-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903720

iUniverse rev. date: 03/27/2017

Contents

Chapter 1 Seasick

Chapter 2 The Louvre, August 22, 1911…

Chapter 3 The Hooded Woman

Chapter 4 Our Heritage, Our Home

Chapter 5 Family Heirloom

Chapter 6 Freeway

Chapter 7 The Class System

Chapter 8 The Hybrid

Chapter 9 Speech

Chapter 10 The Chariot

Chapter 11 The Granddaddy

Chapter 12 Sputnik

Chapter 13 Amendment 22

Chapter 14 Cemetery Road

Chapter 15 The Kill Shot

Chapter 16 Destination: Earth

Chapter 17 Earth Grid: The Fukushima Solution

Chapter 18 Bounty

Chapter 19 The Chase

Chapter 20 Hidden Agendas

Chapter 21 Lockdown

Chapter 22 Titanic In The Sky

Chapter 23 The Golden Retriever Pub

Chapter 24 Early Warning Signs

Chapter 25 Bradshaw’s Subway Hideout

Chapter 26 Runway

Chapter 27 Pub Rumors

Chapter 28 The Beautiful Stranger

Chapter 29 Arrival

Chapter 30 The Mojave

Chapter 31 The Reptilian Line Of Defense

Chapter 32 Preparations

Chapter 33 Spectroscopic Analysis

Chapter 34 Malcolm

Chapter 35 The Absolute Ruler

Chapter 36 Operation Mosquito

Chapter 37 The Thomas Preston Broadcast

Chapter 38 The Antique Jewelry Piece

Chapter 39 Powerless

Chapter 40 Jigsaw Pieces

Chapter 41 Strengthening, Refortifying And Strategy

Chapter 42 Community

Chapter 43 Crisis

Chapter 44 Tony Weathers’ Vigil

Chapter 45 The Escape

Chapter 46 The Hurricane

Chapter 47 Landing

Chapter 48 Expedition

Chapter 49 The Deepest Chamber

Chapter 50 Instruction Manual

Chapter 51 Quotas And Ratings

Chapter 52 Pueblo El Diablo

Chapter 53 The Plea

Chapter 54 Capstone

Chapter 55 The Tower

This novel is dedicated to the loving memory of my mom Lillian, to my brother Steve, and to my very close friends Heather and Paige, all of whom kept my spirits up with encouragement as I was writing this fictional tale.

My mom passed away during the writing of this novel. Because of the trying times associated with her death, the completion of it was delayed.

However, I have decided to finish this work because I know she took great pleasure, pride and joy from my other works of fiction over these last several years.

I am hoping that this fourth novel, although dark and foreboding though this tale may be, will honor my mother as she watches over all of us from above.

Thanks to each of you for your love and support.

CHAPTER 1

SEASICK

I n our near future…

"It isssss now November 24, in some year that is not sssso far away, 3 Days, 8 Hourssss, 27 Minutessss, and 13 Secondssss before the end of your civilization, as you have grown accusssstom.

"You must pardon the hissing of my voicssse. On our planet, we desssscended from what you may think of as reptilessss. Amanda issss one. We are the otherssss.

Quiet, please. Listen. Listen to that sound.

Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick, Tick…

Do you hear it?

Tick, Tick, Tick…

"It is the ticking of a clock.

"A clock always denotes time.

It is the ticking of your Doomsday clock.

Tick, Tick, Tick…

Get ready. Prepare yourself. Prepare thosssse whom you love. Bottled water, non-perishable food, your older technologies such assss your old hand-crank radiossss, even toiletriesss for your excrectionssss.

Tick, Tick, Tick…

For you, and your loved ones, have sssso little time, sssso very, very little time.

Tick, Tick, Tick…

There were two types of sickness in this world that left such a feeling in the pit of Peter Bradshaw’s stomach — stage fright and seasickness. They were a pair. Up until this point, he had only known the feeling of having the first. Now, he was experiencing the latter. He was sick. He was so sick, there wasn’t any room left on the boat for anyone else to be sick.

Here he was, down in the bowels of this ship, in a room that had a rounded ceiling — painted blue and green — just like seawater. He felt like the entire, enclosed world around him was spinning; and his bowels were what were giving him the most discomfort during this crossing of the Atlantic.

He was sick of a lot of things. Mostly, he was sick of his entire life. It had been a life of no consequence whatsoever — a worthless, meaningless existence.

His meager salary didn’t allow him a first-class ticket. He was in the steerage compartment, just one deck above the main cargo hold, crossing a green and blue ocean that was just a few shades of green shy of the color protruding from inside, unquestionably being expressed in all the outward signs of his semi-contorted facial features.

He swallowed two Gravol tablets — without water. He didn’t feel the need to take them with that damned liquid. Liquid that his intestines were no doubt loaded with, that contaminated substance. As far as he was concerned, it was the water, if one could call that pale green substance water.

Something about that Egyptian water — it probably wasn’t sanitized. It was no doubt contributing to his cramps that were tying his stomach up in knots for the last 3000 nautical miles.

He had lost all sense of time, and the way he was feeling, it seemed like 1000 years since he left the port of Cairo, en route for New York City harbor, and dry, steady, unwavering, semi-solid ground.

That was his sixth dose of Gravol today. He had exceeded the maximum recommended number of daily doses by two.

He didn’t bother to follow the directions on the label. He hardly ever followed directions at all — with anything, or with anyone. The tablets weren’t helping all that much, neither had the people who had been assigned to work with him much help.

He thought that keeping busy would take his mind off the relentless queasiness that he was experiencing, so he got up from his sweat-soaked bed. Forget about shaving. His hands were shaking. His whole body was quivering with chills and fever.

He got dressed, still experiencing a touch of dizziness as he did so, opened the door to his cabin, and proceeded down the apparently swaying, rolling hallway to the stairwell. He wouldn’t bother using the elevator.

He didn’t trust it. As a matter of fact, he didn’t really trust anything that was electronic, even though he worked for NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, one of the most highly technologically advanced organizations in the modern world.

Peter Bradshaw was a throwback to an earlier time. He hated technology. He hated it with a passion. But, he had another passion and he needed technology to study it.

He was enthralled and fascinated by the weather. His fascination for the weather, much like weather forecasts themselves, was not entirely accurate.

A better description would be that he was interested in the forces of nature — forces which should not be controlled by man. He had no wish to control, merely understand.

He believed that man should be one who studies, assuming the role of an impartial observer. He was a student of history, more specifically, a student of man’s ancient past.

He had a lifelong hobby and was actively involved in the scientific community in the branch of archaeology.

Each year after he had saved up enough vacation time and barely enough money by existing on one meal a day, always consisting of a single sandwich and perhaps a hot soup, he would buy the cheapest round-trip ticket on some grimy cargo barge that was not meant for passenger transportation and he would travel across the ocean from the United States to England, then venture across land by automobile to Greece and finally into Egypt.

He was on his own, personal mission. He had studied ancient artifacts for the last two decades with special emphasis on Stonehenge, the Statues of Easter Island and the Seven Wonders of the World.

He now firmly believed that Stonehenge, Easter Island and these Seven Wonders were interconnected in some innate, inherent way. This latest trip to Cairo had added one more piece to his theory he was trying to prove. He was certain of it. The evidence of this expedition had provided the initial proof that he needed. Now, he simply had to convince others of his findings.

Of the Seven Wonders of the World, the only one still standing was The Great Pyramid on the Giza plateau. He was returning from having revised its dating and the true purpose of the three aligned pyramids.

After having visited them and the surrounding region for the last six weeks, he had a theory. It would link the pyramids on the Giza plateau in Egypt with the pyramids in Brazil, the pyramids in China, the Statues of Easter Island, and Stonehenge in England, directly connecting all of these sites, dating them at about the same age and same time in history as Stonehenge.

According to his theory, all were directly interlinked in a vast global network of ancient electric power plants, capable of communicating with each other and interlinked in much the same way as was the World Wide Web. The ages of these ancient electrical power plants were on the order of 12,900 years, placing them close to the end of the last Ice Age.

He had performed an extensive analysis of the interior of the Great Pyramid, seeking to find its true age. His theory was also revising the estimate of the age of the Guardian of the Pyramids, the Sphinx.

It was a radical theory that was going to turn the archaeological world upside down and on its head. He was, no doubt, going to be receiving much heat for this.

He was already considered eccentric, but this would completely solidify and reaffirm their beliefs that his nature was radical. They would now treat him as such — as an outcast.

He didn’t care. He had always been treated as an outcast by the general bulk of the established norm within the realms of archaeology.

This personal insult to his reputation would now extend to the general American public.

He had a presentation to give in three days, the day after his arrival at the New York branch of the National Academy of Sciences. His findings would surely cause such uproar, he thought. He hated what was in the immediate future — and he would rather not focus on the immediate future.

He tried to ignore the trepidation. His future looked quite bleak. He would rather focus on the past. After all, this was supposedly his vacation. It was a well earned one. For the time being, he would do what he wanted to do. He preferred to tinker with an old relic that had been passed down through the family — an heirloom, such as it was.

He steadied himself on the railing as he traversed the steps down the stairwell and into the cargo hold of the ship. He was still feeling a little dizzy.

Tin Lizzie dizzy, he chuckled to himself.

There, in four separate boxes, were the pieces to his disassembled family heirloom — an old-fashioned 1925 Ford Model T, fully restored and in almost pristine condition.

He had used this ancient mode of transportation while in Cairo. As far as he was concerned, this Ford Model T was far more reliable than any automobile of the 21st century. It was simple in its design and its maintenance.

He started unpacking the four crates. The chassis of the Model T was practically preassembled. The entire weight of the car when finally fully pieced together would be just shy of 1500 pounds. The only thing he really had replaced was the old battery with its more modern counterpart. The charge held for a longer duration.

He also had installed on the dashboard connections that tied directly to the battery from where he could plug-in his cell phone. This Model T wasn’t configured exactly in its original state, but still fairly close to it.

A small team of four people could reassemble this Model T Ford in less than five minutes on the old assembly lines in Detroit in the 1920s, putting into practice Henry Ford’s concept of mass assembly and assembly line production.

It would take him far longer than five minutes, by himself, to reassemble this automobile, but he had the time. The ship was still two days from Port.

He started mumbling the speech he was going to give at the Academy. As he was reassembling this automobile, in his mind, he was also reassembling the revisions to his speech, based upon his new discoveries at the Khufu pyramid.

This was his only mode of transportation once he would reach New York. These Model T’s had not been in regular use on the American roadways in almost 90 years — if you could call the roadways truly roadways that long ago.

He thought of how simple their design was, how complex and complicated the world had become since those days.

He looked at the engine. Simple in its design, but it was extremely heavy for one man to lift. He would attach it last to the frame.

From the ground up. Remember, from the ground up, Bradshaw, he whispered to himself.

Like grandpa used to tell me, treat her right, build her right. Leave no detail undone, and she’ll always bring you home.

He started by pulling out the rear wheel assembly and attaching it to the main chassis using a ratchet wrench.

He thought back to what had transpired over his last few days in Cairo. He began recalling the Giza plateau, being inside the Great Pyramid, 42 yards, 2 feet, 11.3 inches from the King’s Chamber.

Bradshaw and his guide companion were covered in dust — limestone dust, dust that had been accumulating over a period of some 12,900 years. The seal at the top of the shaft had finally given way.

They appeared as two tiny dot-like figures scrambling along the mammoth structure’s outer, stone-layered surface; finally disappearing into a small, almost imperceptible opening that was, upon closer inspection, a shaft.

Feet first, they tumbled downward at a 45 degree angle to the horizontal down the shaft, the sounds of pebbles falling, penetrating down through the long silent passageway, human movement that this particular shaft had not seen for over 12 millennia.

Slowly, with the sound of the grinding of tombstones, the rock faces separated. Light penetrated down through the darkened passageway. Oil lamps, the only faint source of light, now present in an edifice that had seen neither life nor light within this particular section.

They were inside the largest known pyramid on the planet, the last standing Wonder of the World.

He gripped hard on the last limestone block on the left-hand side, at the far end of the tunnel at its opening, along the outer portion of the shaft.

A sharp edge of it broke off, penetrating his glove and cutting his hand. He pulled a small, sharp, rectangular shard of rock from his palm. A miniscule one, very small by comparison to those that surrounded them on all four sides and down the narrow passageway leading from the King’s Chamber, 15.8 degrees downward from its southeast corner.

The passageway was barely large enough to squeeze his 180 pound frame through. It had been narrowed by design after this connected chamber had been fully completed.

Originally, the shaft had been over three times its present diameter. It had been narrowed mechanically, by an exact science, an advanced knowledge of engineering, beyond modern day principles.

Sand had been intentionally poured into the chambers surrounding this sealed off shaft. Gigantic limestone blocks, weighing hundreds of tons, that had then been slid downward using log ramps that had long ago disintegrated over time, leaving the blocks to settle into their final, resting positions.

He looked down at the base of the sarcophagus and then slowly raised his eyes up from the floor along its North side to the stone lid. The lid was supporting the weight of an enormous limestone block.

He scratched his head in bewilderment, not really knowing what to do next.

So much for seeing what’s inside. I thought you said we would be able to get into the sarcophagus? Wasn’t that block resting over there in the corner the last time we were in here?

Ahmose, his guide companion from Cairo, replied, Iiee’m sure it was.

Then, Ahmose, my good friend, would you care to explain just how it got from all the way over there and lifted up to here?

Meeester Bradshaw, eees not possible. The block, she moved.

Care to explain it?

Eeese not possible, not possible I tell you!

How much do you think it weighs?

Weighs? She weighs hundreds of tons.

On that, we both agree — 300, possibly 400 tons. Heavier than anything we could possibly lift, even using Cairo’s largest ship cranes. Somebody did it. Somebody…

He paused, catching a glimpse of a shiny object, but then lost sight of it. The lighting appeared to be playing tricks on him.

Or something moved that stone since last night. You’re the expert in this region of Egypt, you tell me. You’ve been inside this pyramid before, many times.

Many times. Yes, but this chamber — she completely new. Never have I seen it until yesterday. Nor do I see anything like this before. The stone, she moved. Grave robbers, possibly?

Grave robbers? Don’t be daft, man.

He began taking measurements of an image embedded into the front side of the sarcophagus. The image illustrated what appeared to be a larger-than-life hieroglyphic of a seated female — presumably someone representing the Pharaoh — on a throne.

The image of the female figure appeared to be larger in size than those of the servants appearing in the same image. Proportionally, this female would be at least 11 feet tall if she were to stand erect.

Many things did not make sense to Bradshaw. First there was the female. This did not make any sense at all, as the earliest of the pharaohs were all males. But, this image clearly showed a female form. She did not appear to be exactly human.

Her eyes — they appeared to be more pronounced, larger in size — larger than their size should be, even though she was proportionally taller and larger than those of the male servants, lined up, kneeling at her feet.

Although she was wearing some sort of ceremonial headdress, the shapes of her protruding ears would lead one to believe that they were pointed, and her head appeared to be the shape of a wolf’s.

There was no hair growing out of her scalp. It appeared to be scalp short — almost like an animal’s fur.

As to those attending the supposedly female Pharaoh, each of the male servants was carrying what appeared to be a torch.

Each torch had attached to it what looked like an electric cable, and each of the cables appeared to be plugged into wall sockets.

There was every indicator that these Ancient Egyptians of some 12,900 years ago had attained an intricate knowledge of modern physics, advanced enough to harness the power of electricity, millennia before Benjamin Franklin had performed the first experiments to capture lightning using a metal key on a kite in the early 1750s.

Bradshaw began to walk around the sealed sarcophagus. The lighting was low, illuminated only by their lamps, but he was sure he had caught a glimpse of something shiny in the inches-thick layer of dust beneath him. He stopped in his tracks.

He bent at the knees, reached down retrieving a small, shiny, metallic object that looked, for lack of a better description, like a ballpoint pen from the floor.

As he lifted it, there was something unusual. The object was about the size of a ballpoint pen, but it was deceptively heavy. It felt like a 3 pound weight as he lifted it from the floor.

Whatever the dodecahedron-shaped object was made of, it was exceptionally dense.

He raised the metallic object up to the light to more closely examine it. It was definitely made of some kind of metal. It looked like possibly a titanium alloy.

The Ancient Egyptians were users of bronze and gold, possibly silver, but certainly not titanium for a tool. It looked like it had been manufactured by machinery of this century instead of the ancient antiquities.

It looked like titanium, but it was heavier, denser; even a bar of gold was not nearly this dense, and it was certainly too refined, too advanced, too sleek for the nearly 13,000 year-old Egyptian race to have manufactured it.

It looked and felt different from anything he had ever seen before.

He was unaware that he was inadvertently pressing one of the small buttons on its side. Above them, trickles of dust and sand began to fall from the chambers roof, almost imperceptibly.

The narrower end of the crystal was now pointing at the large stone block atop the sarcophagus. The crystal began to softly hum. The block simultaneously began to vibrate ever so slightly. A sudden, scraping sound of movement between two stone surfaces began and the limestone block began to levitate off the sarcophagus’ lid.

So that’s how they did it, Bradshaw whispered.

Would you look at that? Ahmose, a hidden passageway inside the sarcophagus. A deep one. A whole underground network of tunnels.

He then noticed hanging on the left-hand inner wall a most familiar painting.

Looks — My God! That can’t be real. It can’t be! Ahmose, take a look down through the tunnel. Is that really the Mona Lis —? he started to say, but Ahmose put his finger to his lips in a gesture for Bradshaw to stay quiet and his voice trailed off into silence.

He was inadvertently leaning over the edge of the sarcophagus. His shirt pocket contained the crystal. It was pressing up against the sarcophagus lid. All three buttons were simultaneously pressed on it.

He saw Ahmose put his finger to his lips in the gesture but he no longer could hear his voice.

Listen! mouthed Ahmose in a whisper.

Ahmose’s voice was being drowned out and replaced by a piercing high-pitch whining going off in his head. It was quickly replaced by another loud ringing sound, similar to church bells, completely drowning out every other sound. He temporarily put both hands to his ears and he shook his head.

The church bells were being replaced by other sounds. He could now hear building sounds, construction sounds, and striking sounds, like an anvil meeting steel. No, not anvil and steel, but perhaps chiseling sounds, similar to sounds made when chipping at stone. They were drowning out every other external influence now.

Bradshaw was still transfixed upon the eyes of the painting beneath them. Her eyes appeared to be alive within the painting itself and he found he could not take his own eyes away from her stare he was receiving.

His vision blurred. The images of the interior of the tunnel were now intermixing with other images, very old images, images of millennia, many millennia ago.

He found himself no longer within the Great Pyramid, but upon sandy, rocky soil. There was light from above, hot sunlight, and the slight, warm breeze. He was outside, lying prone and face down on his stomach, at the basin at the exterior of the pyramid.

He had not only been displaced from his physical location, but it appeared to have been a displacement of time — and a considerable one, as the exterior of the pyramid was now being covered in its original marble, as it had been during its construction.

As he began to glance upward along the outer wall of the pyramid, the structure no longer looked aged. Indeed, it had not even been finished. It was in the process of being erected. The capstone and perhaps the upper 20 stories had only its skeletal structure in place where the limestone blocks were yet to be placed and smoothed over with the brilliant marble finishing outer surface.

He was too shaky. His entire body was trembling, as if experiencing electrical shocks throughout his entire nervous system, and he found that he could not readily raise himself from the ground.

Dizzy, disoriented, his vision blurring in and out of focus from the brilliance of the sun high overhead from a cloudless blue sky.

He began to concentrate, trying to focus his vision; he could hear a voice. It was a woman’s voice. The language she appeared to be speaking was accented Ancient Egyptian.

The woman appeared to be sinewy, but larger, and more robust through her entire torso, as she towered over even the tallest of the male slave workers. She approached him and he found himself still unable to raise himself from the ground, still too weak from having been transported backwards through time some 13,000 years into the past.

He could barely raise his head and his vision was still blurring in and out of focus, and he had to look up, look waaaaaay up, but it was apparent to him now that he was being addressed by a female Pharaoh, one whose likeness seemed all too familiar, as her features clearly indicated that she was the same female Pharaoh who had been drawn in the hieroglyphic etchings he had earlier been examining.

She spoke to him, in Ancient Egyptian, in a most commanding tone, as she stepped on his left hand with enormously large sandals, nearly crushing the bones in his fingers as she spoke in a threatening, low sound, hissing, like a lizard, Thiiiissss iiiiiiissssss not your time. Your garb. You come from Earth’s future! Who are you?

My name is … is …Peter Bradshaw, he mouthed in a whisper.

She heard him, she heard English, even though his voice was barely audible. Her hearing was most acute.

She addressed him, in English, modern day, albeit accented American English, which had yet to become an established language on this planet.

Did you just say, ‘My name is Peter Bradshaw’?

He slowly nodded.

"You astound me. You speak in the tongue of my home world, Peter Bradshaw.

I was once known as The She, a warrior, on my home world. Our home world’s language will take many more of your Earth’s cycles about your world’s sun before it will integrate and become one known on this world.

She smiled at him.

She was at least 11 feet tall and her entire body seemed to be growing larger with each passing second. He was certain of it. But, it was her face. It was all-too familiar, even with the scalp-short haircut reserved for the Pharaohs of this time in Earth’s history, he recognized the face.

Her face was identical to the face portrayed in Leonardo da Vinci’s the Mona Lisa. She was one and the same person, only this face was no longer a painting, her face was very much alive.

The Pharaoh’s yellow eyes widened, now recognizing what Peter held in his hand. Gripping the object tightly, all three buttons were accidentally again pressed by him.

Church bells were once more going off his head, almost deafening him. His world began to spin around them again in the same fashion as when he had been inside the pyramid. His vision again began to blur.

She and the Giza plateau began to quickly fade from his sight. His last memory of her was The She had had an intense expression upon her face.

Bradshaw was nowhere to be found. He had disappeared from all existence here in the past just as quickly as he had arrived.

She whispered under her breath, "So, he has found the other half. I require it.

One day, we shall meet again, Peter Bradshaw, and you shall not evade me so easily upon our next encounter.

Bradshaw’s eyes opened, his vision going in and out of focus once again, his entire world around him once again spinning out of control. He found himself at the exact same location inside the Great Pyramid beside his companion.

His stomach churned and there was cold perspiration seeping out of every pore of his skin. He was momentarily pinned to the floor of the pyramid, unable to move, just as he had been moments earlier in what appeared to be Ancient Egypt.

His hearing became more acute as his senses began to gather once more.

He saw once again Ahmose put his finger to his lips in a gesture for Bradshaw to stay quiet and his voice trailed off into silence, almost as if he was reliving the instant that he had left, as he once again began to stare at the painting beneath him. Only this time, he did not feel the disorientation that had overtaken him from before.

This time, he heard Ahmose’s voice in a commanding whisper.

Listen!

The falling of sand and dust became more pronounced. Looking up, Ahmose was becoming aware that the ceiling of the chamber was slowly descending.

Stalactites appeared to be coming through the smooth roofing surface as they both shone their lights upward.

Meeester Bradshaw…the cei —?

Move! Now! Back up the tunnel!

Meeester Bra —?

I said — now! Get in there and climb, climb for your life!

This is definitely not worth it, Meeester Bradshaw!

Bradshaw began to refocus on the present, slightly shaking his head to clear the cobwebs as he spoke.

I’m paying you good money. What do you —?

You’re paying me American dollars, Meeester Bradshaw. They are definitely not worth it — not theeeese!

He flailed the money into the air, unceremoniously discarding the cash.

He continued, Not all of theeeese, no matter how many! We gonna die in here!

Then, everything went still and silent. They thought they both heard something. Movement, a presence, stalking them; watching their motions, trying to gain their scent of fear. They slowly began looking around the chamber.

In the low lighting they could only detect shadows, but one of those shadows appeared to be moving — a deceivingly large, ominous silhouette that appeared to have a female form on all fours.

Her dimensions were seemingly far too large to be female — at least of the human variety at first glance. Her eyes appeared to be in the shape of a cat’s, yellow in appearance and luminous. They appeared to be glowing in the dark, as if they were emitting their own light. She appeared to have no eyebrows.

Ahmose made it first to the shaft opening and began scrambling up through the tunnel.

Bradshaw was no more than a few feet behind him, but the distance was just enough to allow the almost-human female form to grab hold of his left leg around the calf area as he stooped over on his hands and knees to crawl.

Although his trousers were tucked in, he could feel the elongated fingers of this figure clutch at his lower leg. Her touch felt similar to the rough pads on the undersides of an animal’s paws, they were now grasping him.

Stranger still, the paws were like a dog’s nose — cold, wet, sniffing, trying to gain a scent.

They were now crouched over on their hands and knees. Bradshaw scrambled all the faster, pulling his leg free from the creature’s grasp; he pushed up the tunnel, just behind Ahmose.

As Ahmose looked back down through the opening, Bradshaw looked in the other direction back up the tunnel where he was met by a pair of red eyes instead of the yellow. The red eyes appeared to be large, but they belonged to smaller creatures, many in their number. They were…

Rats! I hate rats, he whispered as quietly as he could.

His mind returned to the present. The memory of being confined in such a small crawlspace with those thousands of rats was vivid enough in his mind that his entire body still felt the tingling sensation of them crawling all over him.

The grave robbers took it. The grave robbers took it, he muttered incoherently under his breath.

Imagine them believing that — grave robbers. A 400 ton stone — and grave robbers moved it off that sarcophagus lid, 12,900 years ago. Then, they put it back in place — all by themselves?

He removed from his shirt pocket a long, narrow, 12-sided, cylindrical device that looked almost like a ballpoint pen. It had a metallic appearance and it shone like silver, even in low lighting of this cargo bay. There was a slit along the full length of the object, as if it was split in two halves with half of it missing. It had a shape similar to a male fertility symbol. Its mate, Bradshaw believed, would logically be its female counterpart.

It had demonstrated its unique properties of levitating other objects made of stone. It seemed to exhibit its own magnetic properties as it applied to the limestone blocks in and around the vicinity where it had been found. He had a theory that it had to do with trace elements of metal found in the stones used in the construction of the Great Pyramid.

There was one way to test this theory — of what he assumed to be an extremely powerful magnet. It was to test it on a metallic object.

He aimed the crystal at the Model T engine and depressed the third, small button from the top. The engine levitated and began to float in midair, the crystal slightly vibrating in his hand with a low hum.

He then pressed the small button just below it on the crystal. The humming began to diminish and the engine began to lower itself and after a few seconds was gently resting on the floor boards of the cargo bay.

Grave robbers — Ancient Egyptians, barely capable of understanding the wheel, moved a 400 ton stone using only their ropes and pulleys? I don’t think so. Those egg heads are in for the shocks of their lives.

CHAPTER 2

THE LOUVRE, AUGUST 22, 1911…

L ouis Béroud, a painter, walked into the Louvre and went to the Salon Carré where the Mona Lisa had been on display for five years.

Where the Mona Lisa should have stood, he found four iron pegs. Béroud contacted the section head of the guards, who thought the painting was being photographed for marketing purposes.

A few hours later, Béroud checked back with the section head of the museum, and it was confirmed that the Mona Lisa was not with the photographers. The Louvre was closed for an entire week to aid in investigation of the theft.

French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who had once called for the Louvre to be burnt down, came under suspicion; he was arrested and imprisoned. Apollinaire tried to implicate his friend Pablo Picasso, who was also brought in for questioning, but both were later exonerated.

At the time, the painting was believed to be lost forever, and it was two years before the real thief was discovered. Louvre employee Vincenzo Peruggia had stolen it by entering the building during regular hours, hiding in a broom closet, and walking out with the portrait hidden under his coat after the museum had closed, discarding its original frame upon stealthily leaving the museum’s grounds.

Peruggia was an Italian patriot who believed Leonardo da Vinci’s painting should be returned to Italy for display in an Italian museum.

Peruggia may have also been motivated by a friend whose copies of the original would significantly rise in value after the painting’s theft.

A later account suggested Eduardo de Valfierno had been the mastermind of the theft and had commissioned forger Yves Chaudron to create six copies of the painting to be sold in the United States while the location of the original was unclear.

But the original remained in Europe and after having kept the Mona Lisa in his apartment for two years; Peruggia grew impatient and was finally caught when he attempted to sell it to the directors of the Uffizi Gallery in Florence.

Peruggia was hailed for his patriotism in Italy and served six months in jail for the crime.

Before its theft, the Mona Lisa was not widely known outside the art world. It wasn’t until the 1860s that critics began to hail it as a masterwork of Renaissance painting and only within a thin slice of French intelligentsia.

This was the known history of the Mona Lisa up until this particular moment; and it was only part of the truth.

Soon, the complete truth will be unveiled in its long history when it will be discovered that the original Mona Lisa, which was believed to have been safely housed, hanging in the Louvre for over a century, in point of actual fact, is a seventh fake.

CHAPTER 3

THE HOODED WOMAN

T he Louvre, October 10, Present Day…

It is now 46 Dayssss, 21 Hoursss, 12 Minutessss, 49 Secondssss before Lightsss Out, Earth.

Tick, Tick, Tick…

An unusually tall, slender, hooded female figure, of perhaps 7 feet in height, had been standing beneath the Mona Lisa, closely inspecting it; and was interrupting what the museum’s curator had been saying about this famous artwork’s history.

What you are showing me is a fake. This is not the original painted by the Master.

I assure you, Madam, it is. I shall tell you more of its true history.

She smiled, shaking her head in disagreement, saying, "Thank you, curator, but you have been deceived.

"As eloquently as you told the history of the Master’s most famous work, this version of his painting, as I now observe it more closely, has seen damage."

The Louvre’s curator motioned to the repair to the damage, remarking on its restoration.

You are well read on this painting’s history. You have a keen eye, Madam. I see you have located the markings on the left elbow. It was painstakingly restored in the 1970s, but it has been re—

I tell you it is Peruggia’s fake. The original could never be damaged, not with the materials that were given the Master. They came from another, she hesitated, … place.

All paintings can easily be damaged, Madam, even one of da Vinci’s.

The Master was gifted in his talent, and I saw it fit to give him a gift. The Master used very special materials, materials with unique properties this fake obviously does not possess. The original portrait was meant to last as long as the pyramids themselves. It could not bear damage. It was a present, you see.

She whispered under her breath, My gift to him.

She then again spoke up, in a most insistent tone, I tell you this is a fake! —

Her tone softened again, almost in another whisper, A forgery.

"You were indeed correct. There were six known fakes produced at