The Last Odyssey (Sigma Force #15) - James Rollins Page 0,116
the jars to the bowl?” Gray said. “There are no ladles or pails.”
“By hand,” Bailey said, straightening sharply. “That’s why the jars of Promethean Blood are here. If we coat our hands with it, then it should insulate the moisture in our palms from igniting the green oil. We can fill the basin handful by handful.”
The priest looked around the room, plainly asking for a volunteer to test his theory.
Kowalski groaned. “I’ll do it. I’m Sigma’s demolitions expert. But if my hands get blown off, I’m blaming you, padre.”
Kowalski crossed to the broken pot. A large shard still cradled a pool of the black oil. He dunked his hands to his wrists, coating everything thickly. He then hurried to the glowing pot.
“Be careful,” Maria said.
“There’s nothing careful about this,” Kowalski said. “Let’s just hope this black stuff also protects against radiation.”
“It might,” Bailey whispered. “A draught of Promethean Blood taken before battle was said to protect against all damage, even from arrows and spears. It worked for Jason of the Argonauts.”
“Do I look like some mythic superhero?” Kowalski said with a scowl.
Still, Kowalski took a deep breath, then plunged his hands into the glowing green oil. He turned his face away, as if expecting flames to burst forth. But nothing happened. He let out his breath and scooped up a load between both hands. He lifted his arms and waited for any residual drips to stop falling.
“Now what?” he asked.
“Carefully transfer it to the basin,” Bailey said.
They all held their breaths as Kowalski walked his glowing load over to the bronze bowl. He bent to pour it in.
“Wait!” Gray said. “Stop!”
Still bent over, Kowalski glowered at him. “What?” he growled.
Gray hurried over to the broken pot and shoveled out two handfuls of black oil. He ran back and slathered it across the surface of the basin. “I don’t know if this is still necessary, but if this place was once far wetter, then you probably had to insulate Medea’s Oil from touching any residual dampness in the bronze bowl.”
“Good,” Bailey said. “Better safe than sorry.”
Once Gray stepped back, Kowalski glared at him. “Now can I dump this load?”
Gray waved everyone else back. “Do it.”
With a cringe, Kowalski parted his palms and let the glowing oil flow into the basin. No one moved for a breath.
When nothing happened, Gray waved to Kowalski. “Again.”
It took several trips, and Gray helped him, but eventually the bowl churned with the green oil, filled to its brim. Once done, Gray also transferred some of the black oil to the open green pot and covered the glowing oil with a top slurry of the black, hopefully creating a barrier against any moisture in the air, and put the top back on.
Satisfied, he waved everyone to the far side and took the water bottle from his pack. “Ready?” he asked.
He got nods all around and a shrug from Kowalski.
Gray faced the basin. From a couple of yards away, he squeezed the bottle, sending an arc of water through the air. It splashed into the basin.
The effect was immediate.
The entire pool of oil ignited with a blast of smoke and thunder. A spiral of golden flame shot to the roof, splaying across the surface of the tarnished dome. The fountain of fire blazed for several breaths. They shielded their faces from the blinding light and from the furnace blast of heat.
After what seemed like a minute, but was likely only a few seconds, the flames receded. They no longer reached the roof but continued to dance high above the basin.
Kowalski took a step closer. “Nice fireworks,” he said and waved an arm beyond the flames. “But nothing is—”
A booming gong sounded, loud enough to make them all duck.
Beyond the basin, the back wall cracked down the middle. With a muffled grinding of distant gears, the two halves slowly drew back, sweeping away like a pair of bronze wings, welcoming them into the darkness beyond.
“We did it,” Maria gasped out.
“That’s right,” Kowalski said, sounding far less pleased. “We just opened the gates of Hell.”
34
June 26, 5:53 P.M. WEST
High Atlas Mountains, Morocco
From the cabin of the Eurocopter, Nehir studied the gorge below through a set of binoculars. Her team had reached the Sous River valley five minutes ago. She had not wanted to waste a minute—not after waiting for so long. She had immediately set course along a smaller tributary draining into the larger Sous River, one that Monsignor Roe had highlighted on a chart, the most likely path to