The Alignment Ingress Read Free Page B

by boat or caravan and arrived at the tree, which symbolized Jerusalem—all under Pharaoh’s nose.
    But it started somewhere in the Congo, Hank was sure.
    His XM maps told him there was something there. And Afghanistan had taught him a deep secret about ancient XM finds: they had a funny habit of happening in places where there was also great mineral wealth. He didn’t know why. Maybe exotic matter affected minerals. Maybe it affected anything. It was just a theory. But this find could conclusively prove it.
    A ping from his phone broke Hank’s trance. It was ADA, Niantic’s A.I. interface with a female voice.
    Leaving so soon, Hank Johnson? Where are you going? When will you return?
    Just then he noticed a reflection in his window as a passenger walked by, the young face looking down in the direction of his tablet. Hank looked up in time to catch the passenger’s backside before he slipped through the sliding glass doors into the next car of the train.
    Rosier. So he’s the tail.
    Hank liked the kid, but he was green and clumsy. Then again, ADA probably just wanted to remind him that she was watching and that Rosier was a warm body he could use in the field.
    Hank smiled and replied to her text, informing her that he would return to Niantic in a couple of weeks, give or take a few days, and would have much to report.
    Standard stuff, ADA. No worries.
    By the time Hank’s plane from Zurich landed at the N’Djili International Airport in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, he was a new man: Loud American Reality Star. “I am NOMAD!” was his mantra, and he wanted everybody to know it upon his arrival and to spread the word.
    Nothing grants access like celebrity, he had learned long ago. Every step observed and accounted for. His cover was no cover. He was Hank Johnson, soon-to-be celebrity TV host. He had his film poster and the series’ pitch document to flash at customs. He had a column from Showbiz Buzz about his series going to pilot. Most of all, he had a crew—two Americans supplemented by locals, waiting for him at the terminal.
    Hank had been around long enough to know that media, especially Hollywood media, opens doors around the world. Everybody likes to get close to the red carpet, even if it’s thousands of miles away. His stated pursuit of lost cities conjured romance in the heads of starstruck state officials who were already spending potential tourism dollars. High officials invited him to dinner. Bureaucrats were helpful, and Hank had a stack of greenbacks from his mixed bag of murky sources for any skids that needed further greasing.
    Right now in the airport terminal he had to deal with the country’s new director of tourism, a slim and wide-eyed man by the name of Emmanuel Garamba. The bureaucrat looked excited as they reviewed arrival times for several cargo planes that would be hauling in “ancient ruins” directly from a warehouse in Los Angeles for the shoot in the jungle.
    Hank could have had his military patron General Montgomery drop the sets in by chopper, but he wanted the show. He wanted the natives to see, and to know, that the production was a fake -- Hollywood magic.
    “These props will enhance my great discovery in your country, Emmanuel,” he told Garamba.
    A wide smile broke out on Garamba’s face as he nodded, clearly believing Hank’s “discovery” was a complete fraud and this was all a purely commercial transaction between his country and Hollywood. Glamour without the grunt politics of real archaeology, rare earth minerals and conflict threats.
    “The DRC welcomes you and your team, Doctor Johnson, and offers you our full cooperation in your production.”
    “The pleasure is ours,” Hank said, handing Garamba a thick envelope stuffed with American dollars. “Thank you for the permits. By the way, I’d love to get you on camera for a quick interview before we wrap.”
    Garamba practically glowed, like in his head he was already handing out government jobs for