The chief engineer looked at them, mud dripping from his meaty face. "They can't give me exact numbers. Fifteen, maybe twenty, trapped in the flames."

Someone tossed a lab coat at Logan; he shrugged into it, tied it into place around his waist.

"The explosions happened so fast," one of Valentino's men was saying. "The methane built up in the crawl s.p.a.ces beneath the wings--then it just combusted."

"What happened to the methane system, exactly?" Logan asked.

"Compromised," the man replied.

"Can't the emergency vents be sealed?" Rush asked.

Valentino shook his head. "It's past the point of no return. The only way to the manual overrides is through either Red or White--and they're both infernos. Impossible. The firewall's approaching the central converter and storage tank. We have four, maybe five minutes. Then we'd all better be the h.e.l.l away from here."

"How did this happen?" Logan asked--but even as he asked, he was afraid he already knew the answer.

"We don't know for sure," Valentino's man said. "But we think it was Mrs. Rush."

"Jennifer?" Rush said, going pale beneath his mud-streaked face.

"She showed up at the Staging Area while you all were in chamber three. Had two canisters of nitro. She threw one of them at the Umbilicus. She's still got the other."

"You mean, she's still in there?" Logan asked. "At the Maw?"

"She's been holding everyone at bay with the second canister of nitro," the man said.

"That does it," said Valentino. "I'm giving my last team an order to retreat now--we have to evacuate immediately. Crazy, crazy woman." He turned toward Rush. "Scusi!"

But Rush was no longer standing there. He had taken off down the gangway, heading in the direction of Yellow.

"Ethan!" Logan called after him. The doctor, forcing his way through the crowds streaming into the marina, did not look back.

Now the second huge airboat--as if admitting defeat in its fight against the firestorm--was approaching the marina, announcing its arrival with an earsplitting blast of its horn. Knots of people began lining up along the quay, carrying as many of the priceless antiquities as they could hold. Some of the smaller watercraft had already begun to evacuate the Station, heading north, not even waiting for the big airboats to cut them a path, riding low in the water and mud, overburdened with people and artifacts. Logan turned back, found Tina standing at his side. She, too, had covered herself in a lab coat.

"I'll be right back," he said, then wheeled away again--only to feel her seize his hand desperately.

"No!" she cried, wide-eyed.

He took her shoulders in his hands. The shock of the ordeal was just now beginning to take hold of her. "Get in one of the airboats," he said. "I'll be back in a minute." Then he turned, grabbed the radio from Valentino's man, and raced up the gangway in the direction Rush had gone.

56.

He tore past the deserted offices, cubicles, and equipment bays of Green. Most of the evacuation seemed to be wrapping up; the labyrinth of hallways was almost completely deserted. It was a matter of two minutes to get through the wing to the barrier at the far end. Ducking through the strips of plastic sheeting, he ran across the covered pontoon bridge to Yellow. The air was worse here, the heat growing increasingly intense. Another moment and he was through the far barrier and at the Staging Area.

He stopped. The vast s.p.a.ce looked as if it had been struck by a tornado. Racks of instrumentation had been overturned, spewing high-tech equipment across the concrete. The leads and power cables that snaked across the floor were blackened and charred, several spitting and arcing sparks. The rows of monitoring equipment were all dark. And the Maw itself, the centerpiece of the room, was a smoking ruin, huge curls of metal peeled back upon themselves, the torn and blackened shreds of the top ring of the Umbilicus testament to the explosion that had doomed the final expedition into chamber three.

And there--before the Maw--was Jennifer Rush. Her hospital gown was torn, and her normally perfectly coiffed hair wild. In one hand, she held up a small red canister that, Logan realized, must contain nitroglycerin.

Ethan Rush was standing about five feet away from her. His hands were reaching out in supplication. "Jennifer," he was saying. "Please. It's Ethan."

Jennifer Rush looked at him, red-rimmed eyes cloudy.

Logan came up behind him, but Rush gave him a signal to keep back. "Jennifer, it's okay. Put down the container and come with me."

She blinked. "Infidel," she said.

As he stood there, Logan felt a chill course through him. He recognized the voice--it was the gravelly, dry, distant voice he'd heard in the two crossings he had witnessed. His impression of a malign presence--which he had first felt at the accident by the generator, and sensed all too frequently since--spiked sharply, and he felt his heart start to hammer in his chest.

"Honey," Rush was saying, "just come with me. Please. Everything's going to be all right." He took another step forward, then stopped again as Jennifer raised the container threateningly.

"Thou hast pa.s.sed the third gate," she said in that same terrible voice. "Now thou shalt burn in unquenchable fire. And my tomb will be sealed anew--and for all time." She retreated toward the Maw, hand outstretched, as if to drop the canister into its depths.

The radio in Logan's hand squawked. He retreated toward the doorway, lifted the radio to his lips. "Logan here."

"Logan!" came the thin, scratchy voice of Valentino. "Get back here. Get back here now! I've recalled all search and rescue teams. The fires have reached the central converter, the main storage tank is about to blow!"

Logan put down the radio. "Ethan," he said in as calm a voice as he could manage. "Ethan, we have to go."

"No!" the doctor said, not turning to look at him. "I'm not leaving her. I'm not going to let her die--not a second time!"

"Logan!" came Valentino's urgent voice. "That tank won't last another sixty seconds! The final boats are leaving--!"

Logan snapped off the radio. Now he turned toward Jennifer Rush.

"Your highness," he said. "Come with us."

She turned, red-rimmed eyes swiveling his way as if seeing him for the first time.

"You can leave this place now," Logan said. "You're free. You've won."

For a moment, she swayed, as if from great weariness. A new expression came over her face--one of uncertainty and doubt. She blinked, staring at Logan.

"Jen," Rush said, "he's right. Let's go. Step away from the pit." And he walked to her, arms once again outstretched.

Suddenly, Jennifer swiveled back toward her husband. As she looked at him, her eyes glazed over once again--and a strange smile formed on her lips.

"The pit!" she cried in a great, ringing voice. "The black G.o.d of the deepest pit will seize him! And his limbs will be scattered to the uttermost corners of the earth!" And then--with a sound that could either have been a bark of victory or a sob of despair, or perhaps a combination of both--she hurled the canister of nitroglycerin toward the concrete floor between her feet and those of her husband.

Instantly, Logan turned away but was knocked to his knees by the force of the explosion. He felt a spray of wet matter stripe its way up the small of his back.

"No," he murmured.

Staggering to his feet, not looking back, he made his way as quickly as he could across the pontoon bridge and through the ruined corridors of Green, the smoke now so thick he could barely see.

The marina was, miraculously, as empty now as it had been jammed with people just ten minutes before. All the vessels were gone. A riot of papyri, scarabs, statuettes, evidence bags, gold figurines, coins, gems, printouts, broken crates, and countless other jetsam--much of it invaluable--lay scattered around the flooring, catwalks, and jetties.

Above the ever-increasing roar of the flames, he heard the honk of a nautical horn. A small tender had just left the dock, the last to depart the Station. Beyond it, Logan could make out a long line of other craft, some large, like the two airboats, others tiny, all stretched out across the Sudd, heading away as quickly as the foul swamp would permit.

The tender honked again, turned around, and approached the farthest jetty of the marina. On impulse, Logan reached down, scooped up a handful from the treasure strewn at his feet, pushed it into the pocket of the lab coat. Then he raced along the catwalk, tore down the jetty, and leaped from its end into the rear of the tender. The little craft banked around and resumed its course, following the caravan of retreating vessels.

"Thanks," Logan said, gasping for breath.

"Better keep your head down," the pilot said in return.

Logan ducked into what served as the vessel's hold: a small s.p.a.ce barely large enough for a few life jackets and a spare can of gasoline. And then--with a violence he thought would have been reserved for Armageddon, and Armageddon alone--the Station tore itself apart behind them with a roar that seemed to rend the universe and that turned the sky, and the surrounding earth, as black as night.

57.

The motley procession of vessels steamed north in the fading light of afternoon. They had at last left the swampy h.e.l.l of the Sudd behind and were headed for the upper cataracts of the Nile.

Whether the craft were going to attempt to pa.s.s the cataracts and head into Egypt proper, or whether they would land at some intermediate point and relocate the expedition to trucks or aircraft, Logan didn't know--and he didn't much care. After transferring from the tender to one of the large airboats, he had spent the journey staring moodily out of a porthole, watching the pa.s.sing landscape but seeing nothing, wrapped in a coa.r.s.e ship's blanket. The overall mood of the ship seemed to match his own: shock, grief, uncertainty. People huddled in small groups, talking in low tones or comforting one another.

As the sun began to set, Logan stirred. He stood up, put the blanket aside, and walked out onto the deck. Not once during the journey had he looked back at the destruction and burning ruin they'd left behind; he did not look back now. Instead, he walked forward in search of coffee. He found some in a cramped galley near the bow. Within were Valentino and a few of his men, standing in a half circle around an espresso machine. Valentino nodded to him and wordlessly pa.s.sed him a demita.s.se.

Cradling the cup, Logan walked sternward, then climbed the stairs to the vessel's upper deck. Here he found Tina Romero, sitting on a deck chair, wrapped in her own blanket. She had managed to clean herself up, but in spots her hair was still sprinkled with flecks of dried mud.

He sat down beside her, pa.s.sed her the espresso. She smiled wanly, took a sip.

As he settled into position in the deck chair, he felt something p.r.i.c.k his side. He reached down, felt in the pocket of the lab coat, and drew out a small handful of items. In his palm, carnelians and rubies glowed richly in the light of the setting sun. He had completely forgotten s.n.a.t.c.hing them up in his desperate run for safety. Now, looking down at them, he couldn't imagine why he had done so. Was it some desire--some need--to salvage something from the ruin of the ill-fated expedition? Or something deeper, more atavistic--something to do with the loss of Ethan and Jennifer Rush?

Tina looked over. Her eyes, which had been dull and faraway, brightened somewhat. She reached down, her fingers rifling gently through the artifacts, and picked up a small faience amulet. She held it up to the fading light. It was an eye--seen, as in all ancient Egyptian art, in full face rather than in profile--surrounded above and below by decorative sculpted curls.

"A wadjet," she said over the cry of the waterbirds.

"Wadjet?"

"The story goes that one day, while Horus was asleep, Seth--his great enemy at the time--crept up and stole one of his eyes. When Horus awoke, he went to Isis, his mother, and asked her for another. This was the replacement she made: the wadjet, or healed, eye. It supposedly holds great magical power." She stared at it. "This must have come from Niethotep's mummy."

"How do you know that?"

"Priests wrapped wadjet eyes into the bandages of mummies as a form of magical protection." She turned it on its side, pointing at something.

Logan peered closer. There, engraved, were two images: a catfish and a chisel.

"Narmer," he murmured.

"She appropriated even this," Tina said. She sighed, shook her head, and pa.s.sed it back.

"Keep it," Logan said.

For a long time, they just sat there, in the slow, healing silence, as the vessel moved north.

"What do you think Stone's going to do?" Logan asked at last. He hadn't seen the expedition's leader since the voyage north began.

Tina glanced at him. "About all this? He'll come out smelling like a rose. He always does. He'll have an interesting story to tell--a.s.suming anyone believes it. But from what I can tell, it appears we managed to salvage a large number of the more important grave goods."

"Salvage? I thought that word was anathema to you."

She smiled mirthlessly. "Normally, it is. But here, we had no choice. The discovery was simply too important to leave to the flames--especially the large number of papyri we recovered. They hold priceless information--even if they do raise more questions than they answer."

"You mean, why Narmer was so far ahead of his time."

"Yes. Why did so many ceremonies, so much art, so many beliefs that we thought didn't develop until many centuries after his time actually originate with him? And what happened to them? Why were they lost for so long?"

"I can guess the answer to that last question," Logan said. And he pointed at the wadjet eye that was still clasped in her hand.

Tina nodded slowly, closing her fingers over the artifact. "At least I won't have to worry about my job. I've got years of research ahead of me."

Another, longer silence settled over them. The sun crept lower, then sank, behind the horizon.

"Why did she do it?" Tina asked at last, in a very low voice.

He turned toward her in the gathering dark.

"What happened to Jennifer Rush?" she asked.

For a moment, Logan said nothing. And then he began to answer--an answer that, he realized, he had been unconsciously rehearsing the entire time they'd been traveling downriver. The comfortable, the orthodox, answer. "Jennifer had certain--psychological issues," he said. "Rush told no one about them. He felt that her unique gifts, the length of her own near-death experience, made her valuable enough to the expedition that it outweighed those issues."

"Valuable to his precious Center, you mean," Tina said bitterly. "Think of the publicity value it would have meant for him."

"No," Logan replied. "I don't think he ever thought about it in those terms. He cared for her--cared for her deeply. But I think his attachment to his research blinded him somewhat. He didn't see, or refused to see, the toll that the crossings were taking on Jennifer."

"In that case, he was blind. I could see it. I did see it, that time I witnessed her going over. If Ethan knew she was emotionally unbalanced, he shouldn't have forced her to undergo that. Not once, and certainly not again and again. Especially after her own personal trauma--clinically dead for fourteen minutes. It's no wonder she ultimately came to believe herself possessed by a spirit from the dead."

When Logan didn't answer, Tina fetched a deep sigh. "That time we watched Ethan induce the hypnotic state, ask her all those questions ... I couldn't help but wonder: What did it feel like for her? I mean, when she came back out of it? Poor Jennifer."

Still, Logan said nothing. He was remembering an earlier conversation he'd had--a very different conversation--with Ethan Rush. I've been thinking about what you said, the doctor had told him. That Jen was brain-dead for so long--that her NDE was so protracted--that, in essence, she might have lost her soul.

Fourteen minutes ...

"Came back?" he said at last. "We don't know what came back." But his voice was so soft that Tina did not hear it over the thrum of the engine and the lapping of the waves.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

While research for The Third Gate drew on many factual sources, Egyptologists will note that I have not hesitated to alter numerous relative dates, rites, beliefs, and many other facets of ancient Egyptian history--both general and specific--in the service of this novel. And while the Sudd is most certainly a real place, I have also altered various geographic, political, and temporal aspects of the swamp, returning it to the kind of unearthly place described so vividly in Alan Moorehead's The White Nile.

Be that as it may, The Third Gate is a work of fiction, and all characters, events, and particulars in the novel are entirely imaginary.