The Atlantis Stone Read online

  It appeared to be missing the second page, but concluded on a third, offering some hypotheses the author had come up with to explain the stone’s mysterious properties. It ended with a single symbol in the place of a signature.

  It was the symbol of the Greek letter Phi:

  “You see, Professor,” Vilocek said, “there may in fact be some use for you here.”

  Chapter 10

  Dr. Vilocek continued to explain his thoughts on the ancient letter. The large guard, whose name tag read ‘Karn’, was joined by two more guards; one named Beka and another, younger man named Rogers. As Vilocek went on, Jensen and Corinne listened with increasing interest, forgetting for a moment how they came to meet this man.

  Jensen found himself getting lost in the compelling results of Vilocek’s research, and had to keep reminding himself that Vilocek had abducted them — and shot him. The fact that he had a bullet hole in his side reminded him that there was something sinister about this whole thing, regardless of how interested he might be in Vilocek’s research. Jensen wondered how Corinne could have any role in this. She was a smart girl, with a degree in Applied Physics and Mathematics, on a fast-track to a career at NASA. But with NASA’s budget dwindling, her interests had shifted to a research career, or eventually a teaching position. She’d reached out to Jensen six months ago, hoping he could find her a position in his department. He had an opening, and they’d been working together since.

  They made a pretty good team, Jensen thought. It wasn’t every day that Jensen got to do some old-fashioned research, the kind that had turned him on to ancient history in the first place. But having Corinne around helped his preliminary information-gathering process go twice as fast.

  Corinne spoke several languages, including German and Spanish, but most notably native Hawaiian — she’d lived there from the age of eight. Now, her knowledge, wit, and linguistic skills helped her to quickly grasp new concepts and tie them into historic contexts. Maybe having her here would be good for him to keep his head in the game, though he knew it was a selfish thought — she would be, or already was, in more danger being here than back at her apartment in Santa Fe.

  Vilocek continued, explaining that the letter had been written by Thomas Jefferson and addressed to Benjamin Banneker in 1791 — prior to the founding of the nation’s capital. Jefferson and Washington apparently believed there was a legendary “source of power” that provided supernatural abilities to whomever possessed it. The item mentioned in the letter had been in the care of a group of men — referred to by Vilocek as the ‘Phi Group’ — who had discovered its strange characteristics. They believed this item was a smaller piece of a much larger power source, and that they must retrieve and protect it, eventually using its magical properties for the benefit of the nation.

  “So,” Corinne interrupted, “the Founding Fathers wanted to protect the nation, and this would be a huge insurance policy for them, but they didn’t already possess the main source of power? How did they know it was part of a larger piece?”

  Vilocek looked at her. “We believe that they knew it was part of a larger piece because someone in their group had found it. Whoever it was, we don’t know. But they did seem to believe they knew where on Earth the larger item was located.

  “We don’t have the whole letter — there’s a page missing — but we do know that the group wrote Banneker to request that he approach the man in charge of laying out the city’s streets and buildings — Charles Pierre l’Enfant — and have him slightly alter the city’s layout. The letter’s middle page was the only written account of the actual location, and Washington ordered it to be destroyed after Banneker read it. They wanted to design into Washington D.C.’s streets a secret map to the location of the power source — forever hidden in plain sight.

  “We know Banneker at least partially succeeded, because within a few months Charles l’Enfant resigned from the job and took his original plans with him. Benjamin Banneker became the assistant to the new surveyor — Andrew Ellicott — and they created the layout that remains to this day.”

  “So what were the changes they made?” Corinne asked.

  “An excellent question — one that had baffled me for years. Since there are no surviving copies of l’Enfant’s original map, we can’t know for sure what the differences are between his and Ellicott’s designs.”

  “We had been analyzing the street’s angles and shapes, expecting to find some kind of markings that might point us in the right direction. There are so many obvious symbols, and recent popular culture has often pointed to these as symbols of Satanism, Freemasonry, and even more obscure possibilities. But your uncle’s recent paper,” he said, nodding toward the article on the table, “led me to what I believe can only be the proper explanation.”

  With that, Karn pulled a map from among the papers on the table and laid it out before them.

  “Look familiar?” Karn asked them.

  Jensen examined it. “Sure,” he said, “it looks like the layout of Washington, D.C., obviously before the modern additions, like highways and city expansion.”

  “It’s actually before any construction had begun on the city at all,” Vilocek said. “This map is one of the preliminary documents created by Banneker and Ellicott’s team, borrowing heavily, we assume, from l’Enfant’s original sketches.”

  “This,” Karn said, “is the layout approved by President Washington, his advisors, and Thomas Jefferson. After Banneker had Ellicott change the plans according to that letter.

  “As we found out, there are numerous places in this city plan where crossing streets and their shapes create angles that are closely related to the Golden Ratio and its derivatives. Professor, when we read your paper on the Ratio, we were struck by the fact that there were also numerous angles found in the Great Pyramid of Giza that are related to the Golden Ratio — some of them exactly the same as those in the city’s plan — here, look for yourself.” He pulled out another diagram detailing the dimensions of the Great Pyramid at Giza, in Egypt:

  “But,” he continued, “what if the nation’s capital city had been altered, not be a map to a location, but a map of a location?” He asked this rhetorically, obviously knowing the answer.

  Jensen’s mind was racing. Corinne wasn’t as quick to pick up the implication. “What do you mean, ‘a map of a location?’” she asked.

  “Well,” Vilocek said, “it turns out that it is not just angles that the two locations have in common.”

  “Here’s a diagram of the interior of the Great Pyramid,” Karn said, flipping the paper over. “A cross-section from the side. Look familiar?”

  Corinne gazed at the picture, and pointed out elements of the diagram. “Here’s the main chamber — the ‘King’s Chamber,’ I believe. And this smaller one must be the ‘Queen’s Chamber,’ but I’m not sure about the bottom box or the other lines.”

  Vilocek nodded approval. “That’s correct — and although the bottom chamber is simply referred to as the ‘Lower Chamber,’ or ‘Subterranean Chamber,’ as it’s completely underground, directly opposite the pyramid’s apex, the lines on the diagram are actually passageways inside the Great Pyramid — the ‘Ascending Passage’ and ‘Descending Passage,’” he continued, pointing out each in turn. “There’s a central shaft down the middle, and the double-lined section is the ‘Grand Galley’ — part of the ‘Ascending Passage,’ leading directly to the ‘King’s Chamber.’”

  Professor Jensen silently took it all in. He knew the diagram from his own research, and had seen it used on websites and in Giza books. He also knew now where the two men were going with their mini-lecture, but he let Vilocek continue.

  “We immediately noticed a similarity between the two diagrams,” Vilocek said, “and with a little resizing, we came up with this,” he pulled yet another paper from the stack, this one much larger:

  Although Professor Jensen had anticipated this, it took him by surprise how well the two images — one of the Great Pyramid of
Giza, and one of the original Washington, D.C. city layout — fit together, now superimposed.

  Labels of the pyramid’s main features had been added, and in parentheses under each element was the corresponding street or feature on the D.C. map. The Ascending Passage was Pennsylvania Avenue, leading directly to the King’s Chamber — the White House map. The northwestern side of Pennsylvania Avenue was the Grand Galley, starting on the D.C. map perfectly where the Capitol Building was located.

  The Descending Passage lined up with Potomac Avenue, the Subterranean Chamber corresponded to a point in the Potomac River. The shaft section of the pyramid had a similar shape to D.C.’s canal, and Vilocek explained that there were some liberties taken by the architects of the canal due to the natural topography of the area. Still, the similarities were uncanny. After a full minute examining the map, Corinne and Jensen looked up at Vilocek’s wide grin.

  “You see, Professor, you’ve helped us determine the location of this power source — hidden in plain sight for more than two centuries. The Founding Fathers needed to protect the location of the secret if they were unable to find it in their lifetime — in some way that would go relatively undisturbed over the years.

  “The small sliver of crystal you see before you was originally found at the bottom of the Potomac River, in Washington, D.C. by a team of divers I hired. As a matter of fact,” he said, pointing now at the superimposed pyramid/street map image on the table, “they found it right here. It was in a rotted box, completely buried in silt, directly where the Subterranean Chamber on this image lies. It turns out they were pointing us to Egypt; to the chamber beneath the Great Pyramid.”

  Jensen Andrews and his niece shared a puzzled look, then one of shock.

  “I require you and your niece to join us on this expedition — your knowledge of the Golden Ratio and ancient Egypt dwarfs even my own. We may need that kind of expertise.” His eyes moved slowly from Corinne to the map, finally resting on Professor Andrews.

  “Mr. — Dr. — Vilocek,” Jensen stammered, “I appreciate your acknowledgement of my expertise, but why help you? What’s to say you won’t just kill us when you no longer need us?”

  Vilocek nodded toward Karn.

  Karn smiled almost imperceptibly. He stood up, grabbing a fistful of Corinne’s long, red hair. She gave a yelp as he yanked her to her feet and forced her toward the far wall behind the table.

  When they were about twenty feet away, Professor Jensen screamed in pain.

  “What the hell!“ Corinne yelled, as Jensen fell over backward in his chair, clutching his side. He struggle to his hands and knees, crying out in short gasps.

  “Help… I… can’t breathe… Please!” Jensen gulped for air, his right hand clutched tightly over the bullet wound in his side.

  “Professor Andrews,” Vilocek said calmly, “you were not shot with a ‘normal’ bullet last night. We have developed here at Vilocorp a very unique instrument — one based on the crystal piece our Founding Fathers left to us.

  “In addition to its miraculous healing properties, we’ve found that by synthetically bonding the crystal with particular elements — in this case, lead — we can produce some interesting results. You were shot with a lead-infused synthetic crystal that acts as a magnet of sorts — dormant when close to another piece of lead-crystal like it, but when pulled a certain distance apart, it becomes active, turning into a heated piece of metal.

  “You,” he continued, looking at Corinne, “are wearing a counterpart piece of this crystal substance, locked to your leg.”

  Corinne looked down in horror, only now noticing the small handcuff-like metal band on her ankle, with a grayish-clear rock attached to one side of it.

  “Your uncle is experiencing this phenomena firsthand,” Vilocek continued, waving a careless hand at Jensen. “Eventually, if you get far enough apart, the heat will become so intense that it will literally burn a hole through his body. He’ll be in pain, but eventually he’ll be knocked out from catalytic shock. Our test subjects lasted about twenty minutes, depending on where the bullet wound was on their body. Eventually, though, they all bled out — and I expect the same outcome for your uncle, should you remain separated for that long.”

  Corinne had tears in her eyes. “You bastard…“

  “You should also know, Ms. Banks,” Vilocek said, ignoring the insult, “that each of us is carrying an identical substance, designed to react with the bullet inside your uncle. If you try to get away, alone, from the men on my team, he will die. Slowly, and very painfully, I assure you.”

  Jensen silently rocked back and forth on the floor, seething in pain.

  Chapter 11

  12:13 am - Whittenfield Laboratories Headquarters, Washington, D.C., USA

  Bryce sighed with weariness, less from exhaustion than extreme boredom. His wounds hardly bothered him, save for the occasional flare-up in his shoulder where the tendons had taken a little longer to heal properly. His security detail tonight had him walking quite a bit. His route through the complex was essentially a circle he shared with two other men, one named Eric Benson and the other a fat lumpy fellow named Behar. Bryce couldn’t remember the guy’s first name — kind of sad, since he was Behar’s boss — so he usually just called him “Behemoth;” only in his head, of course.

  He shook his head, laughing to himself. He walked up the stairs out of the tall tower encasing the facility’s combustion core unit — the power center for the Whittenfield Research center. Except for his two “recruits,” part of the compensation package Bryce had worked out with Whittenfield two months ago in Afghanistan, his team was a pretty shoddy excuse for a security detail. He’d have been happier with some “rent-a-cops” from the D.C. Police force. “Behemoth” Behar was a nice guy; mid-forties, wife and kids in the city, probably liked long walks on the beach, that sort of thing. He just wasn’t much to write home about when it came to physical appearance or agility. Or target practice, weight training, or anything else related to being a security guard at a high-security research firm.

  The other five members of the team weren’t much better. He had only really met one of them, and even then only because the kid had been out drinking the night he was supposed be on the clock with Bryce. Not well-suited to dishing out tongue-lashings, Bryce had just stared him down when he finally returned from his “night out,” two hours late for his shift. The kid’s conscience seemed to have taken over from there, and he’d caused no more trouble. Bryce thought his name was Adams… Adamson? No, Adam something. Whatever, he thought. The remaining three men didn’t strike Bryce as anything more than the standard career-type guards. At least they were all nice enough, and got along pretty well together, but not one of them was higher than average in any regard. They were all just guys punching a clock, looking forward to quitting time. They all went home at the end of the day, forgetting about work until their next shift.

  Only Bryce and his two hand-picked recruits — Privates Wayne and Jeff Thompson — lived at the firm’s headquarters, in the same residence wing with the scientists and some of the other staff. The three of them shared a room, Bryce on one side and the brothers on the other, in a bunk bed unit. Wayne “Ranger” and Jeff “Hawk” Thompson were actually out tonight enjoying the D.C. nightlife, but Bryce expected them back within the hour for the shift change. They were good men, and great soldiers — Bryce had trained with them a few years ago, and they’d been close with Bryce since college.

  The Thompson brothers were from Texas, raised on a ranch north of Abilene. They had grown up most of their lives farming, hunting, and wreaking havoc on their sleepy town. Their father was an avid farmer and rancher, and their mother was a housewife. Both the boys enjoyed a comfortable existence living the American Dream.

  To outsiders like Bryce, the family of four seemed to have a normal existence, but their commonalities with the traditional American way of life ended with a home-cooked meal each night.

  Their father, Mr. Thompson (Bryce hadn’t ev
er heard his first name used), was an ex-Marine who had served in Vietnam and the Gulf War, and had a distinguished service record that contradicted his nonchalant farming life. As boys and young men, the Thompson brothers were trained by their father to track, hunt, and shoot like soldiers, and the three of them had even spent weeks at a time on numerous occasions living off the land on camping trips and survival expeditions on their 100-plus acre Texas farmstead.

  In college, Bryce loved to listen to their stories, often told by the brothers via intense bickering and arguing matches; Wayne staying coolheaded and understated, while Jeff would exaggerate the stories beyond recognition. The effect was a hilarious hours-long epic, complete with animated descriptions and accounts acted out by the pair.

  One of Bryce’s favorites was the time when twelve-year-old Wayne and ten-year-old Jeff, home for the summer from middle school, had decided to go on a camping trip for the weekend down by the farm’s brook — this time unaccompanied by their father. They’d gone to the same location plenty of times and had long before stashed gear and supplies at the campsite for a quicker setup. This particular weekend the boys had forgone their mother’s prepared picnic-style meals, planning instead to catch or hunt their own. The only food item they brought, however, was a plastic 12-ounce Coca-Cola bottle Jeff had filled with dry ice from the supermarket on the way home from school. He didn’t tell Wayne he’d brought it, and when they were about to cast their lines, Jeff filled the bottle with water, tightened the cap, and threw it in a bit farther upstream. As it floated past, he casually asked his older brother to grab it, claiming he’d accidentally dropped it in.