―Gone, gone!. he cried, even as his comrades fell, spitting up
blood and then lying still.
Barraq grabbed the survivor and shook him to his feet. ―Speak,
fool! What happened?.
―A door—. He coughed out blood, speckling Barraq‘s face.
―—strange signs upon it . . . twisting serpents and a staff. We
could not open it. We three returned to seek your advice, to call
for the Magi. But the others . . . they would not wait..
Barraq shook him again, harder. ―What happened?.
―Hammers! I heard hammers striking the door, then.—he gasped and
clawed at Barraq‘s face—―they screamed, .Trap! It‘s a trap!‘ The
walls shook, the floor gave way. Then the sound.—another coughing
fit seized his body—―of a roaring wave..
Barraq slowly turned to Dakhil as he let the man drop to the
ground. ―A trap . . .. he echoed, just as other men began streaming
out of the doorway.
Dakhil reached for his sword, and they fell upon him before it
cleared the sheath.
# # #
The seventeen men who survived had been
higher up in the tower. The other eighty-three, including their
horses, had, by some unknown device, been swept out into the harbor.
Dakhil was led to the rocky shore east of the lighthouse and was
forced to watch the bodies of those he had betrayed wash up against
the stones, forced to stare at those he had sent to their deaths,
their bloated, battered corpses a testament to his impatience.
He looked on, attempting stoicism, even as Barraq‘s men set about
sawing off his hands at the wrists and his feet at the ankles.
Amidst his screams, they cauterized the stumps with flames from an
oil-soaked torch and then chained him to the rocks in the water at
the base of the lighthouse, facing west, away from Mecca.
At one point during the ensuing days of agony, as the gulls and
the ravenous fish came to feast on his flesh, Dakhil recalled the
old Greek legend of Prometheus. He had, after all, merely longed to
bring light into the world, to present a powerful gift to mankind.
Unlike Prometheus, he had failed; but like the Titan, he had
nevertheless been ruthlessly punished.
Barraq left him there after retrieving the dead and placing a
team of six men at the summit to staff a continually burning pyre.
They could not afford to lose any more ships in the treacherous
harbor, and their vigilance against Constantinople must not cease.
He rode off on the tenth day of Dakhil‘s slow death, too soon to see
the lone boat steal across the harbor through the moonless night.
A man in a gray cloak stepped out onto the embankment and calmly
traversed the rocks until he reached the dying man. ―It seems,. he
said after a moment of contemplation, ―your father chose poorly..
Dakhil moaned. His chewed-out eye sockets, above the ragged flesh
and protruding cheekbones, turned toward the sound. His lungs choked
on seawater and congealed blood. ―No . . ..
―We are Keepers,. said the stranger. ―Keepers. A sacred trust we
have held for centuries. I cannot forgive what you have done..
―Believed . . . it was time,. Dakhil muttered as the water crashed
over his emaciated body and the cloaked form bent over him.
―It is not for us to decide the time. Only to keep the secret until
the world is ready.. The words, spoken deeply, powerfully, came from
within the folds of his hood.
―In the meantime, the Pharos protects itself. The Pharos has always
protected itself.. Dakhil moaned.
The cloaked stranger moved in closer. ―While I cannot forgive, I
can be merciful.. A thin blade cut through Dakhil‘s throat with
almost no resistance and produced very little blood. A soft gasp
wheezed into the surf. The man stood up. He bowed his head toward
the flickering beacon high above in a final sign of respect and a
renewed commitment to its protection. Then, with a heavy sigh, he
made his way back into his boat and sailed into the shadows.
Whoever wants to conquer Egypt has to conquer Alexandria, and
whoever wants to conquer Alexandria has to conquer the Harbor.
— Julius Caesar, The Alexandrian War
Sixty feet under the harbor‘s churning waves, his blue fins
kicking just above the reef‘s dangerous uppermost protrusions,
Professor Caleb Crowe held the grapefruit-sized marble head in his
bare hands, letting the colder currents wash off the sediment and
muck. He turned the sculpture around, marveling at the late
classical Egyptian artistry—the perfect symmetry, the deep-set,
The headdress and the Sothis star on her forehead placed this
artifact in the Ptolemaic Dynasty—just about the right age. He
reached for the camera hanging from his neck, considering how he
might use this photo in a series of Ancient History lectures he was
currently preparing for the spring semester at Columbia.
In the shadowy depths, the reefs and amphorae intermingled with
the huge rocks, immense pillars and chunks of masonry thrust between
the long-forgotten shipwrecks. Caleb‘s breathing quickened, echoing
in his ears even as the Mediterranean‘s pressure squeezed his head
in its grip. The current tugged him sideways into a massive block of
He let go of the camera and reached out to steady himself. And as
Isis looked on, the bare skin on his fingers touched the ancient
slab — and something like an electric jolt ripped through his
nervous system, starting at the base of his spine and spearing out
in all directions. The water shimmered, the sea bottom shuddered,
and a red-hot pain tore open the doors to his mind, barged inside
and exploded in a blast of golden light like a swarm of maddened
yellow jackets on fire, careening off the insides of his skull.
Caleb hadn‘t had a clairvoyant vision in more than four years,
and to have it strike now, of all times, at the bottom of
Alexandria‘s harbor, with his air running out and his dive partner
wandering off on his own somewhere beyond the dim shadows, was about
as dangerous as it was startling. The vision ripped through him like
a teasing jolt of pleasure, then just as quickly left him alone
again in the cold water, with Isis‘s eyes looking upon him with
There was a brief moment of confusion, then it returned with a
vengeance. He doubled over, hyperventilating, burning through his
oxygen, seeing . . . His mind reeled and his stomach twisted. An
armada of bubbles surrounded his head like ravenous fish, nipping at
his skin, shouting out alarms. But his eyes, wide open, no longer
perceived what lay before him, for they strode with his mind...
...to the tower . . .the lighthouse . . .the Pharos ...there
it is, rising before him, a three-stage construction, almost four
hundred feet high, tapering to a glorious spire that seems to
challenge the simmering Egyptian sun itself. The tower.s outer
casing glitters on the western side, reflecting the sun with the
light of a thousand stars, and all along its ascent hang statues of
divinities and mythical guardians, peering down from their lofty
He tears his eyes away and blinks, bringing into focus the man
standing on the steps, welcoming him. A man he instinctively knows
as the architect of the Pharos: Sostratus of Cnidos.
"Welcome, Demetrius," he says. "Come, I have much to show
Seeing through Demetrius‘s eyes, Caleb speaks as if following
a wellrehearsed script. His voice cracks and the words spill like
gravel off his parched tongue. "Sostratus, engineering wonder this
may be, yet it has the imposing grandeur, aura and beauty of the
divine. My friend, this lighthouse will be adored for ages."
Sostratus turns and looks up at his handiwork. "I hope you are
right, and humbly, I trust in the gods that I have built it well
enough to last."
He helps Demetrius up the final steps into the courtyard,
where doves and sparrows coo in transplanted palm trees and
fountains pour out fresh reservoir water at each of the cardinal
"And it is not yet done." Sostratus raises his hand to the
distant, dwindling spire atop the converging stages; past the
mammoth two-hundred-foot rectangular lower section, pierced with
three hundred windows; beyond the octagonal second stage, rising a
hundred feet more, to the last part ascending the final hundred
Tiny forms climb on ropes and chisel at sections on the spire,
at the cupola and the pillars around the beacon, working like
"I apologize that the masons have not yet removed the
scaffolding. We are still hauling up stone for the outer casing and,
of course, the great golden statue of Poseidon has yet to arrive by
barge from Memphis. I have invited Euclid to pay me a visit and
calculate how best to raise it to the apex."
Demetrius makes a grunting sound, then reaches over and clasps
"By Jupiter, you have done it."
"Why so shocked, my friend? Surely you have watched my
progress from your precious library across the harbor?"
Demetrius stops and teeters as he cranes his neck and gazes
up. "In the scroll rooms, there are few windows. We need to
safeguard the world.s most important books, not expose them to the
Sostratus chuckles. "Well said. And of course, in all your
courtyard festivals you never thought to lift your head over the
wall and glance westward to admire my creation?"
Demetrius looks down at his sandaled feet, taking strange
comfort from such a common sight. "I have, my friend, I have. A
remarkable achievement, your lighthouse has become an integral part
of the landscape in the mere twelve years it has taken to build.
Alexandrians may take it for granted, yet they speak of little else
but its completion and the coming festivals Ptolemy has planned for
its dedication day. Your lighthouse has, in fact, become synonymous
with Alexandria. The thousands of daily visitors to our harbors are
awestruck by its magnificence.
Indeed, it is the first thing they see, well before the coast
even appears." Sostratus smiles. "I hear they are already calling it
„The Pharos,. after the island itself."
"True, Homer.s little epilogue in the Odyssey granted us fame
"Even if he had it wrong. Egyptian settlers at Rhakotis told
Menelaus the island belonged to Pharaoh, and out of ignorance, the
name stuck. Pharos Island."
Demetrius nods, waving off the same boring discussion he.s
endured uncounted times. "Believe me, I know the tale well. We have
over ninety copies, translated into fourteen languages, with
scholars working on the Iliad now."
"Wonderful ambitions you have," Sostratus says, intending the
complement to be genuine, however eliciting a wounded look from
Demetrius. "Or is it our king.s ambition?"
"A little of both. Although, from time to time I have to fuel
our benefactor.s interests." Sostratus nods in empathy. "Now, my
friend, do I get the promised tour, or must I wait another twelve
"In just a moment. First I want you to look up, right there."
He points to a low-level scaffold, untended for the moment, above
which a lengthy inscription is chiseled in Greek letters large
enough to be seen by arriving ships in the Eastern Harbor.
Demetrius squints and reads it aloud:
"SOSTRATUS OF CNIDOS, SON OF DEXIFANOS, DEDICATES THIS TO THE
SAVIOR GODS ON BEHALF OF THOSE WHO SAIL THE SEAS."
He blinks. "All honor to Castor and Pollux aside, I think
Ptolemy Philadelphus may have something to say about your name on
"Indeed he would," Sostratus says, his lips curling into a
grin, "if this were what he saw. Our king wants his credit, and he
shall have it. I am humble and patient. My thoughts are ever in the
future, beyond the horizon of mere generations."
"What are you going to do?" Demetrius asks, genuinely
"Tonight, when the sun.s heat diminishes, my slaves will
cement over this inscription and carve into it all the credit due
our great king."
A smile creeps across Demetrius.s face. "Ah, ingenious!
Assuming your slaves are mute, or you have them killed, in time, the
cement will crumble and erode away, revealing your name."
Sostratus spreads out his arms and closes his eyes, basking in
some private, faraway vision. "I shall be immortal."
"I had not thought you so vain. Is it so vital that you are
"Only for what I have done. It is the same with your books,
no? Those authors, their wisdom must endure. Hence the need for your
Demetrius nods. "Of course, but—"
"This tower is important in more ways than are immediately
obvious. Beyond safety, beyond practicality, beyond a mere symbol of
our grand city and a testament to Alexander.s genius. Beyond all
that, I intend it to house something even more precious, something
that, like my inscription above, will emerge in time and bring truth
to a clouded world."
"Then by all means, sir." Demetrius bows. "Now . . . the
High above, the sun peeks through the open-air cupola between
gilded pillars supporting the roof where Poseidon.s feet are
destined to stand. A lone hawk circles the mid-section, vainly
beating its wings to ascend farther.
# # #
Caleb gagged, reached for the fading vision and saw his fingers
spear through a cascade of bubbles—bubbles spewing from his own
throat. He‘d spit his mouthpiece out! The world was darkening, his
mouth filling with foul water.
For so many years he had pushed this power away, dreading the
visions that came: horrific sights of metal cages in the mountains,
of emaciated hands reaching through the bars, of whimpers and moans
and cries for help. Visions dredged up by a talent he couldn‘t
control, alive with sights, sounds and smells. A gift he‘d never
wanted. A curse.
But today was different. What he saw was new—an original,
unprovoked vision. Too bad it would be the last vision he ever saw.
Then it surged back, and . . .
. . . Demetrius whispers, "It.s marvelous." He shuffles around
two slaves at work polishing a marble Triton as he exits the
hydraulic lift, the water-powered elevator that has shot them up
three levels in less than a minute. He steps up to the terrace.s
southern wall. Mouth open, he gapes at the view: the sprawling twin
harbors below, the Heptastadion connecting the mainland to Pharos
Island, the hundreds of multicolored sails dotting the sea and the
boats anchored at the docks, the wide stretch of the magnificent
Imperial Palace, and behind it, the gymnasium, the Temple of Serapis
. . . and there, the shining walls and columns and the golden domed
roof of the museum. Inside its walls are the library and the
mausoleum of Alexander, whom Ptolemy buried there, establishing his
direct connection to the legend.
"Incredible, seeing it from this vantage." His gaze follows
the Street of Canopus from the Moon Gate by the sea across
Alexandria and through the Gate of the Sun, parallel to the canal
connecting to the Nile, then weaving across the sands back through
the haze and dust of the desert toward Memphis and Upper Egypt. The
fierce cobalt sky engulfs all else, until the startling turquoise
sea grazes at the horizon and consumes everything beyond. Over the
dark blue waves, the shadow of the Pharos arches to the east as a
lone marker etching its imprint upon nature as it would graft itself
onto human consciousness for millennia to come.
"You were saying?" Demetrius takes great gulps of air and
slowly backs away from the edge.
Sostratus takes his arm and leads him inside the spire to a
staircase weaving in a double spiral up the last hundred feet. "I
was speaking of impermanence and of a future that is even beyond the
sight of the oracles."
"If even the gods are blind to it, then what must we fear?"
"The unknown." Sostratus speaks as they make the same ascent
he has made three or four times a day for the past three years. His
friend, unconditioned to the exertion necessary for such a climb,
needs to rest.
"Must we continue to the top?"
"I wish to show you something before we go back down—down into
the very bowels of the earth to illuminate the real reason you are
Demetrius shoots him a look. "What, was it not for the view?"
"Not entirely. Come, we are almost there."
Caleb bolted back to the present, fighting the brackish, cold
water rushing into his lungs. He screamed—or tried to—dimly aware of
another figure swimming toward him. The darkness softened until it
gave way to the bright light of day, and a familiar man in white
robes . . .
. . . emerges alone at the top. Sostratus climbs inside the
"lantern," a thirtyfoot-wide cupola, where four marble pillars,
fitted with rare gems and studded with embroidered gold, support a
domed roof twenty feet overhead. In the center of the floor, the
empty brazier stands ready for its sacred task of alerting and
guiding ships safely into the harbors past the deadly silt banks,
shoals and reefs that for centuries have been the bane of seafarers.
Sailors will be guided by fire at night, and by smoke during the
day, the black coils visible long before even the tower emerges into
A noise at his back makes him smile. Demetrius appears from
the trap door, holding his side and wheezing. He sits on the top
step and glances around while wiping thick beads of sweat from his
forehead. "I don.t believe I.ll look over the edge. Maybe next
"Entirely understandable. But come,"—he motions to Demetrius
to get up— "witness these automatons." Great statues, twice the size
of men, stand at three of the corners of the platform. "I.m sure you
are familiar with Heron.s designs and inventions outlined in the
Demetrius nods, even though he.d had time only for a perusal
of Heron.s work before other scholars, including Hipparchus,
snatched it up to examine and debate with its author on the
principles of hydraulics and thermodynamics.
"This one," Sostratus says, pointing to a muscled statue in
the likeness of Hermes with his finger outstretched along his angled
arm, "was designed with help from your resident astronomer
Aristarchus. It tracks the daily path of the sun, precisely
mirroring its trails and changing with the seasons. "That one
there"—he points to the western edge, where a silver-plated robed
female faces the Imperial Palace and leans forward with hands cupped
around her mouth—"screeches out a warning of the presence of a
hostile fleet if one of the attendants trips that switch.
The whole city can be mobilized hours before invading ships
can be seen from the shore."
Demetrius mumbles something lost in the winds, then rises to
his feet. "And that last one?"
Sostratus laughs. "A trivial magician's trick. It calls out
the hours of the day. But here is what I am most proud of." He lifts
a heavy tarp, releases it from its bindings, and lets the wind rip
it free, flinging it from the spire to sail with the winds out over
the hills and the rooftops of Alexandria. "The great mirror."
Demetrius gasps at the immense circular sheet of polished
glass adhered to a thick layer of metal. He looks into its surface,
and sees himself reflected back, but at reduced size.
"A finely polished lens." Sostratus smiles. "It will direct
the beacon.s fire by night, sending a beam out to sea to guide ships
or, perhaps, harness the rays of the sun and set them to flames."
"Apollo.s blood," Demetrius whispers, hands shaking. "And you
can move it, direct it?"
"We will have that capability, yes. Once mounted on the
outstretched hand of Poseidon,
we will control the statue by means of gears and levers."
"Fantastic." Demetrius involuntarily glances down—all the way
down— where his gaze settles on the tiny dome of his library. "So,
my friend, why did you really call me here if not for the enviable
experience of being the first to have such a tour?"
Sostratus turns his back on his guest and stares out to sea,
"This was merely prelude, so that you could understand the
extent of my tower's defenses, the sturdiness of its construction,
how I have built it to withstand the elements and the ire of the
"Fine, I have witnessed it. To what end?"
Sostratus coughs. "Do you know what the high priest of Memphis
said when Alexander.s funeral procession passed through his city?"
"He said, 'Bury him not here, for where that man lies only war
and strife will endure' "
Demetrius remains silent, and listens only to the sound of the
wind rustling through his clothes. "I.m sorry, my friend, I cannot
fathom what this has to do with me. I understand your fears of war
and how this lighthouse has been outfitted as more than a mere
beacon, but—"Sostratus turns abruptly. "Come with me back to the
ground floor, then below it, beyond the hydraulic workings and
through the tunnels under the harbor. There I will show you the true
function of this tower."
"But why me?" Demetrius asks, struggling to keep up as
Sostratus starts back down. Immediately, he is pleased to find the
descent infinitely more comfortable than the climb.
"Patience, my friend. You are about to see." Sostratus leads
the way, and they descend in silence, circling, moving ever deeper
with each successive stage. "And before you glimpse into the vault
that will house the greatest treasure ever assembled, I ask only for
one thing—your pledge to guard its secret with your life."
# # #
Caleb saw it all in a flash, as though time had altogether
stopped its forward march while his mind processed the visions
breath by breath, full of all the sense and clarity of lived
experience. But then it moved on and everything shifted back into
The water slammed him into reality. The bubbles, the currents,
the mouthpiece flailing in the spirals of muck rising from his
thrashing feet . . . the statue head falling from his grasp. And
then other hands on him, holding him, forcing a spare mouthpiece
between his lips. Gagging, choking, coughing. He kicked away.
Disoriented, his mind still straddling two millennia, he broke free
and sped upward, heedless of everything but the need to break the
surface, to thrust his head out and see—see if it was true. To see
the reality of the vision still locked in his mind‘s eye of that
glorious spire, that transcendent tower.
Was it really there? A towering colossus dominating the harbor,
all of Egypt, just as he had seen it?
He kicked and thrashed and ignored the raging fire burning his
skull, in his blood, until a wall of pain halted his ascent. And then, fully
believing it would be his final wish, he thought, Phoebe, forgive me! before his lungs
died and he fell into a chasm of pain and mindlessness.
# # #
For the past ten years Caleb had been waiting for a miracle—for
his father to dramatically stride back into their lives with grand
stories of adventure and escape from that horrible Iraqi torture
cell in the mountains, the one Caleb had seen time and again in his
His father had been shot down in an Apache helicopter during the
First Gulf War, and his body had never been recovered. It wasn‘t
long before everyone had moved on—everyone but Caleb, that is—who,
although only five at the time, had already started having visions,
a power his mother claimed to share, despite never witnessing the
same things Caleb had seen every night: his father, very much alive,
very much tortured, begging, pleading for help, for acknowledgment,
for salvation. Images of things done to him—wooden shards under his
fingernails, wires attached to the place between his legs—would wake
Caleb screaming. He‘d reach for the pencil and pad of paper he kept
by the bed and scramble to draw the horrific visions that lingered,
clinging to him in the waking world. He‘d see . . .
. . . some kind of great enclosure, a fence or a gate, and a
burning fivepointed star above it. Sometimes an eagle‘s head, flying
over a sun. And his father‘s arms, bleeding from a hundred cruel
cuts, reaching out, bloody fingers clasping at nothing, his voice a
barely audible whisper, ―Caleb . . . Caleb . . .. And then a word he
couldn‘t make out.
But instead of even the slightest acknowledgment of his
remote-viewing talents, his mother had sent Caleb to therapy. That
had been the beginning of his split with her. With both of them,
even his sister Phoebe, to some extent. His mother had refused to
believe that his dreams could be populated by such personal
revelations, especially in light of their terrifying nature, so she
attributed them to childhood delusions, feelings of paternal loss
and grave emotional trauma.
―It‘s true!. Caleb had yelled one time when he was twelve, when
it had all come to a head. Standing up to her, but only coming to
her shoulder. In that moment he‘d seen a flicker of fear in her
eyes. Or was it a flash of respect?
Her eyes had snapped to the drawings on his bed, and she seemed
to deflate, shrinking to his level. She gripped his shoulders. ―I
don‘t see those things,. she whispered, and her eyes softened and
seemed to implore, and neither should you.
Tears had spilled down Caleb‘s cheeks as he tried to pull away
from her. He wanted to shout that she was wasting her talents by
drawing stupid old buildings and ancient shipwrecks. Those things
didn‘t matter. And the people in her socalled .psychic‘ group, the
members of the Morpheus Initiative, who came by the house to sit
with her and go into their trances and talk to the spirits or
whatever— they were leeches and imposters. And so was she.
How could she have any real power? How could she be a true remote
viewer if she couldn‘t even perceive what Caleb, a child, had seen
so clearly, if she couldn‘t tell that her husband was crying out in
pain, a prisoner forgotten by his country, and worse, by his own
family? No, instead, his own wife had chosen to spend her time with
strangers, helping them find useless old artifacts or sunken wrecks.
Caleb had pushed her away and run out the door. He raced along
Sodus Bay in a cool November rain, ran past that decrepit lightship
he and Phoebe had affectionately named Old Rusty. He ran until he
was too tired to keep running. And then, when he had spent his
anger, he turned back and walked to the entrance of their own
lighthouse—the historic landmark his family had managed for two
generations–and climbed the narrow metal stairs to the very top,
where he sat beneath the old burned-out light, the great lamp that
had been decommissioned just after his father‘s disappearance.
Hugging his knees, he‘d stared out over Sodus Bay until the sun
finally burrowed beneath the horizon and hid itself for another
And now, all these years later, in a rush of frothing bubbles,
Caleb burst from the depths of Alexandria‘s Eastern Harbor,
expelling a lungful of acrid water, coughing as the other divers
rushed him to the waiting yacht. He briefly regained consciousness
and gasped when he perceived the grand lighthouse as it stood over
two thousand years ago, leaning over as if to inspect his condition
for itself. And at the very top, at the apex, Caleb imagined he
could see someone gripping the railing and peering over the side, a
man who looked, not surprisingly, like his father.
At the first bend on the promontory, just above a jumble of
boulders and red stone rocks rising out of the sea, a man stood,
watching. He wore a black tie and Ray-Ban sunglasses. His hair,
trimmed short, had gray streaks that flecked his temples, matching
the color of his just-pressed Armani suit. He held a paper bag full
of stale bread crumbs, handfuls of which he tossed absently into the
frothing sea while he stole glances at the scene in the harbor.
―It‘s happening,. he said into the wind. Then he cocked his head,
listening to the answer returned to a tiny plastic receiver in his
left ear. He tossed a few more crumbs out to birds that warily kept
―Yes, I‘m sure,. he said. ―The young professor from Columbia.
They just pulled him out of the harbor. Probably ascended too fast .
. . No, Waxman‘s yacht is right there, and my guess is he‘ll have
Caleb in the recompression chamber in minutes . .
. If you recall, when we learned Crowe would be diving, a few us
felt this possibility was not unexpected, yet our warnings were
overruled.. The man paused, listening, then shook his head. ―No. I
can‘t get closer, not without risk..
Another handful of bread crumbs launched into the wind blew back
onto his starched pants and his polished leather shoes. ―Yes, we
have a microphone on the yacht as ordered. Fortunately, it‘s in the
same room with the hyperbaric oxygen
chamber.. He made a scowling face. ―Well, at least we did that
right.. He nodded, coughed and then tossed the bag, crumbs and all,
into the sea. ―All right. I‘ll wait here and listen in, but I won‘t
risk exposure. If Crowe has that kind of talent, and he happens to
sense something . . ..
The wind kicked up and whipped his jacket open, flinging his tie
over his shoulder. Head down, he walked behind two tourists snapping
pictures. He opened a pack of cigarettes and spent some time and
difficulty lighting one as he walked toward the fortress.
He switched the channel on his earphone‘s receiver, and while he
waited for the sounds from the boat, he kicked at a rock, sending it
off the edge and into the sea. He walked along the breakwater stones
toward the vacant citadel, pretending to admire its immense
sandstone walls, its grand colonnades, gates and towers. As if this
decrepit hovel could compare with the Pharos.
He risked a backward glance. The activity on the yacht continued,
with the other divers surfacing, climbing up to check on their team
member. All aboard, he mused, smiling as he adjusted his glasses.
Then he tapped his ear, increasing the volume. He listened, hearing
the tension in their voices, the conflict between the members of the
Morpheus Initiative and their leader, George Waxman. Conflict is
good, he thought. Might even be in our best interest to get them
working at odds, coming at this from different angles. God knew it
was going to be hard enough as it was.
For two thousand years the Keepers had waited, but patience was
running thin. He and his fellow Keepers were convinced that the time
for passivity had long since passed. A combination of dedicated
research and luck had finally led them to the Key. And now, knowing
it was only a matter of time—time measured in years, not
centuries—plans were set in motion.
Several reliable sources had confirmed that it was close: one of
the members of the Morpheus Initiative had it. Now, it was only a
matter of finding out which one and answering the larger question of
determining if whoever had it even knew what it was.
He turned and looked out across the sea, his gaze sweeping the
harbor like a lighthouse beacon. Two millennia. Indeed, patience was
running out. But still, they had to be careful.
The Pharos protects itself.
Read the rest of
The Pharos Objective
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Published by Deviation Books (USA) an imprint of Variance LLC.
Books and Video
The Pharos Objective (Paperback)
by David Sakmyster
Driven by visions of his dead father, Professor Caleb
Crowe reluctantly joins the Morpheus Initiative, a team of
remote-viewing archaeologists determined to locate the remains of
the seventh Wonder of the Ancient World—the Pharos
Lighthouse—beneath which the legendary treasure of Alexander the
Great is rumored to be hidden.
Crowe’s quest spans two thousand years of visionary history that
connects the ashes of Herculaneum and the lost Library of
Alexandria with a secret government program and ancient society
called The Keepers.
To discover a threshold guarded by deadly traps and forgotten
prophecies is one thing, but facing the truth about himself is
something else altogether.
From the Author
The idea for this novel came from two intriguing sources. The first
was a real life scientific experiment in the late seventies that
used psychics to remote-view the location of Cleopatra's palace and
other mysteries in Alexandria. The second was my research into the
Pharos Lighthosue, specifically some early sources stating that
there were diabolical traps under the foundation that protected a
great treasure - possibly the lost hoard of Alexander the Great.
The idea to synthesize these two elements led to this novel - and
the sequels, the first of which concerns the search for Genghis
Khan's lost tomb...
The Pharos Objective (Kindle Edition)
Worth a Look
of the Fifth Sun [Paperback]
by David Sakmyster
A near-death experience unlocks a hidden pwer...
and sets a prophecy in motion.
A journalist recovers from a vicious attack on
her life. Returning from the brink of death, Rebecca gains the
ability to see the ghosts and spirits found all around us.
This power brings her to the defense of a boy with the
miraculous ability to free the earthbound souls.
This child is hunted by the ghost of the most
blood-thirsty ruler in Aztec history-an evil power driven by
an ancient prophecy to conquer both the living and the dead
and to bring about the end of our age. Twilight of the Fifth
With a cast of complex and entertaining
characters, the story races to a furious climax atop the
pryamids of an ancient Mayan city, where the battle for the
salvation of the world will be waged.
to ‘Pharos’ just came out. In THE MONGOL OBJECTIVE, the team
of psychic archaeologists are on the hunt for Genghis Khan’s
resting place, and again they’re caught up in ancient
mysteries and mystical artifacts…
a mystical Egyptian artifact is stolen by a renegade member of
the Morpheus Initiative, Caleb Crowe and his team of psychics
must use all their abilities to prevent the release of its
catastrophic power. But first, they must survive the defenses
of a subterranean mausoleum belonging to the world's greatest
conqueror. Genghis Khan.
Praise for The Morpheus Initiative Series:
"David Sakymyster combines expertly researched historical
mysteries with compelling modern characters, intriguing plot
twists, and breathless pacing.
His archeologist heroes seek not just legendary secrets, but
the secrets within themselves."
-- William Dietrich, author of BLOOD OF THE REICH
"… Indiana Jones meets the X-Files -- an archaeologist
adventurer with psychic powers of remote viewing who can see
the past, ancient treasures, historical mysteries, action and
adventure that crosses the world, and a damned good story."
-- Kevin J. Anderson, #1 international bestselling author of
THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
"This is a book I wish I'd written - great premise - great
-- M.J. Rose, international bestselling author of THE
REINCARNATIONIST and THE MEMORIST
"A classic good vs. evil story, a novel that kept me turning
pages far into the night."
-- Nina M. Osier, author of 2005 EPPIE science fiction winner
REGS and the HIGH PLACES trilogy
RV - The Remote Viewing
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