Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

50

THE HINDU MERCENARIESarrived outside the hatch that led down to the water cooling pipes under the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina. The hatch was located in an open space next to an apartment building on the far edge of a dirt lot used for overflow parking.

The lot was nearly empty, with only a dozen or so cars near the building itself.

The leader of the Hindus simply backed the truck up next to the hatch, cut the padlock with bolt cutters, and then led a team down the iron ladder into the tunnel. Once they were inside, the driver and another man who had stayed behind backed up on top of the hatch and waited.

The concrete tunnel was six feet in diameter with a series of pipes marked in Arabic that denoted their purpose. The pipes were propped up from the bottom of the tunnel on brackets, and there was a thin walkway along the side for inspections. The inside was dark and cool with the smell of wet concrete and mold. The leader turned on his flashlight and the other men followed suit.

Then they began walking single file toward the mosque.

They had traveled nearly a mile underground before they came to the first fork. The leader stared at a handheld GPS. The signal was weak because of the concrete sheathing above his head, so he pulled out the tunnel diagram Hickman had provided and whispered to his men.

“You five go that way,” he said, quietly pointing to the men. “The tunnel will arc around and eventually form a rectangle. Set charges as you go at the intervals we discussed, then meet up with us at the far side.”

The one group set off along the tunnel to the right, the leader and his men to the left.

Forty-seven minutes later they all met up on the far side.

“Now we switch sides,” the leader said. “You men go down our tunnel and check our charges as you go. We’ll take yours and do the same.”

The men set off in opposite directions, their flashlights waving through the tunnel.

At each of six spots along each passage, C-6 and sticks of dynamite were wrapped together in bundles almost a foot in diameter and attached to the pipes with duct tape. On each of the stations was a digital timer that was counting down the hours.

The first timer read 107 hr: 46 min. The charges were set to go off midday on the tenth, when the mosque would be crowded with nearly a million pilgrims. The amount of explosive force the Hindus had stowed would reduce the mosque to near rubble. The largest charge they placed, with double the C-6 and dynamite, was directly under the spot on the diagram showing Muhammad’s tomb.

If the charges worked, in less than five days, centuries of history would be erased.

THEY MADE THEIR way back through the tunnel to the hatch that led up to the surface, and the leader climbed under the truck and slipped out the side. Stepping over to the driver’s window, he tapped and the driver rolled it down.

“Pull forward,” he said.

Once the men were back in the truck, the leader took out a padlock he had brought and relocked the hatch.

Four minutes later, under a thin sliver of moon, they set off back to Rabigh.

AT 6 A.M. THAT same morning, Hanley assembled the Corporation operatives in the conference room of the Oregon.The ship was offshore of Tel Aviv in the Mediterranean, making slow, lazy circles in the water. Hanley stared at a television screen showing the Robinson approaching from the bow.

“That’s the chairman,” he said, pointing. “He’ll be leading the briefing. Until he makes it down here I want each of you to go over your notes. There’s coffee and bagels on the side table. If you need something to eat, get it now. Once Mr. Cabrillo starts, I don’t want any interruptions.”

Hanley walked out to go to the control room for the latest updates. He picked them up from Stone and was just exiting the room again when Cabrillo and Adams walked past.

“Everyone’s waiting for you in the conference room,” he said, following the pair.

Reaching the conference room, Cabrillo opened the door and the three men walked inside. Adams, dressed in his flight suit, took a seat at the table. Hanley positioned himself next to Cabrillo, who walked behind the podium.

“Good to see you all again,” Cabrillo began, “especially Gunderson and his team. It’s nice to see they finally let you go,” he said, smiling to Gunderson. “We’ll need everyone for what is about to happen. I just returned from Tel Aviv and a meeting with the Mossad. They sent a large team into the mosque around the Dome of the Rock early this morning to search for explosives. Nothing of any type was located. Nothing conventional, nuclear or biological. They did locate a video camera that was not supposed to be there, however. It was hidden alongside a building inside a garden in a tree.”

No one spoke.

“The camera was hooked to a wireless uplink that sent the images out to a processing unit outside the mosque, then on through a conventional cable to a nearby building. The Mossad was making plans to enter the building when I left. They should have an update for me soon.”

The group nodded.

“The interesting thing about the camera was that it was positioned to point up at the sky above the Dome of the Rock, just catching the top of the structure. This indicates to me that Hickman, if he has recovered Abraham’s Stone, is planning some type of aerial assault that destroys the stone and damages the Dome of the Rock at the same time. His plan is to tape the destruction and somehow televise it to the world.”

The team nodded.

“The situation with Mecca and Medina is this,” Cabrillo continued. “Kasim and a United States Air Force officer will be leading a pair of teams, all comprised of U.S. military men who are Muslims, to check for bombs. I left Pete Jones in Qatar to coordinate things with the emir, who has offered to help us any way he can. I’ll let Mr. Hanley explain those efforts.”

Cabrillo stood away from the podium and Hanley took his place. Walking over to the coffeepot, Cabrillo poured two cups and took one over to Adams, who nodded his thanks.

“As you all know, Mecca and Medina are the two holiest sites to Islam. Because of that, they are off-limits to any non-Muslims. Kasim is the only member of our team who practices the Islamic faith, so he was selected to lead the teams. The emir arranged for a cargo plane and a fleet of multipurpose street and trail motorcycles to be shipped along with the members of Kasim’s group to Yemen. They arrived early this morning and slipped across the border to Saudi Arabia by driving along a wadi, or dry streambed. The latest update shows them already past the Saudi town of Sabya and driving north. Then they will board public buses to take them to the two mosques. Once there, they will spread out and search for explosives.”

“What about the shipping containers?” Halpert asked.

“As you all know,” Hanley continued, “the team that was in Maidenhead discovered traces of a toxin that we believe was sprayed onto the prayer rugs inside the containers. Kasim dispatched eight men on a commercial flight to Riyadh and they have already taken up positions around the cargo area where the shipping containers are stored, awaiting delivery to Mecca. Quite simply, we caught a break there. If those containers had arrived on time, they probably would have been unloaded by now and the toxins would have been released into the air. As it was, Hickman was so late with the delivery that the trucks were rescheduled for other tasks. According to the schedule the NSA intercepted from the planner’s PDA, he moved the delivery date to tomorrow, the seventh. The plan is to have the team at the cargo depot hook up the containers themselves and start down the road to Mecca. Somewhere between Riyadh and Mecca, we’ll need to destroy them or move them out of the country.”

Just then the telephone in the conference room buzzed, and Cabrillo walked over and answered. “Got it,” he said, and hung the receiver back in the cradle. Hanley looked at him in expectation.

“That was Overholt,” Cabrillo said. “His agent detected radiation near the curtain around the Kaaba. Hickman somehow managed to switch the meteorites.”

IN LONDON, MICHELLE Hunt had spent the last few days cooped up in a hotel room being grilled by CIA agents. She was tired but still cooperating. Quite frankly, the CIA was beginning to realize there was little she could do to help their efforts. Right from the start they had dismissed the idea of her calling Hickman. Even if he was carrying a portable telephone, once he saw that she was not phoning from her usual number he’d know something was up.

A plane had been scheduled to fly her back to the United States, and it was scheduled to leave within the hour. For the most part, all Hunt had been able to do was shed some light on Hickman’s life.

And that she had done in minute detail. They had asked her about everything, and she had complied. The agent in charge just needed to wrap up details on a few more points and he could submit his report.

“Now, back to the beginning,” the agent said. “When you first met, you said he flew into Los Angeles to inspect an oil property he was thinking of purchasing.”

“Yes,” Michelle Hunt said, “we met that day at lunch at Casen’s. I had a gift certificate from a girlfriend for a recent birthday. I was not in a position to afford expensive meals—even lunch—at that time.”

“What happened next?”

“He came over to my table, introduced himself, and I asked him to join me,” Hunt said. “We were there all afternoon. He must have known the owners because when the lunch crowd cleared out, they left us alone. They were setting the tables for dinner around us—but no one said anything.”

“Did you eat dinner there that night?”

“No,” Hunt said, “Hal arranged for us to fly over the oil field at sunset so he could check it out. I would guess he was trying to impress me.”

“So you flew over the field and glanced at it from the window of the plane?”

“No windows,” Hunt said. “It was a biplane. I sat in the seat behind.”

“Hold on,” the agent said, “it was a two-seater?”

“An old Stearman, if I remember correctly,” Hunt said.

“Who was flying?” the agent asked.

“Well, Hal was,” Hunt said, “who the hell else?”

“Mr. Hickman is a pilot?” the agent asked quickly.

“Well, he was back then,” Hunt said. “If Howard Hughes did it, then Hal tried it too.”

The agent raced for the telephone.

“THIS ADDS ANOTHER layer to the picture,” Hanley said. “Now we not only need to recover Abraham’s Stone from Hickman, we have to switch it back without being detected. The president has advised us that he wants to keep the Saudi government out of this operation if at all possible.”

At that moment one of the hundred-inch monitors in the conference room lit up. The screen was split in half vertically, and Stone could be seen on the left side. “Sir, I’m sorry,” he said, “I know you asked not to be interrupted, but this is important. Watch the other half of the screen.”

An image filled the right half.

“This is from a pair of cameras the CIA stationed at the locks on the Suez Canal. The image was recorded within the last fifteen minutes.”

The camera panned across an old work ship. A couple of crewmen were working the lines as the ship passed through the locks. A single man stood on the rear deck drinking coffee. The camera caught him looking up.

“I overlaid it with the program Ms. Huxley created,” Stone said.

Everyone in the room watched as the 3-D image floated over the man. The edges of the lines matched up perfectly. When the man in the boat moved, the computer-generated re-creation tracked along.

“Sir,” Stone said quickly, “that’s Halifax Hickman.”

“Where’s the ship now, Stoney?” Cabrillo said.

The left side of the screen showed Stone in the control room glancing at another monitor. “She’s out of the locks and slowing to come into Port Said, Egypt.”

“George—” Cabrillo started to say.

“We should be fueled and ready by now,” Adams said, rising from his seat.

Four minutes later the Robinson lifted from the deck. It was two hundred miles from the Oregon’s position to Port Said. But the Robinson would never reach Egypt.

51

VANDERWALD’S PLANE CAUGHTa tailwind and they arrived a half hour early.

Traffic was nonexistent; it would be another hour before commuters began to clog the roads heading to work, and he arrived in front of his house only fifteen minutes after stepping off the plane. He gathered a pile of mail from the mailbox on the street, slid it under his arm and carried his single bag to the front door.

Once he was inside the entryway, he set the bag on the floor and placed the mail on a desk.

He was just turning around to close the door when a man appeared from the side and the sound of footsteps came from the hall leading to the kitchen.

“Morning, shitbird,” the first man said, pointing a gun with a silencer screwed to the barrel at Vanderwald’s head.

The man said nothing else. He simply lowered the weapon and shot Vanderwald in both knees. Vanderwald dropped to the floor and began to scream in pain. The second man was in the entryway now, and he crouched by Vanderwald, who was rolling on the floor. “Do you want to explain this invoice we found on your computer for a DC-3?”

Two minutes and two well-placed shots later, the men had their answer.

A minute later the first man delivered the coup de grace.

The two men exited by the rear door and made their way through an alley off the rear of the house, then down a side street to where they had stashed their rental car. They slid into the seats, and the passenger peeled off his gloves and dialed his cell phone.

“The target just returned from delivering a DC-3 to Port Said, Egypt. He won’t be a problem any longer.”

“I understand,” Overholt said. “You can come home now.”

“I NEED A real-time shot of the airfield at Port Said, Egypt,” Overholt said to the head of the National Security Agency. “We are looking for a DC-3 airplane.”

The head of the NSA shouted instructions to his satellite technicians.

“We’re redirecting,” he said. “Hold on.”

While he waited, Overholt reached in his desk drawer and removed his wooden paddle with the red rubber ball attached and began to furiously bang it back and forth. The wait, which took but a few minutes, seemed to stretch for hours. Finally the NSA head came back on the line.

“Stand by, we’re directing the picture to you.”

Overholt watched his monitor. An image of the airfield from high above filled the screen. Then it started to reduce itself until the DC-3 was visible. The image slowly reduced down and increased in detail. There was a man walking across the runway carrying what looked like a blanket close to his chest. He walked directly toward the DC-3 and, as Overholt watched, he began to open the side door.

“Keep on the DC-3,” Overholt ordered. “If it lifts off, try to track it along.”

“Will do,” the NSA head said, disconnecting.

HANLEY WAS SITTING in the control room with Stone when the telephone rang.

“Here’s where we’re at,” Overholt said quickly. “Ms. Hunt just disclosed to my agents that Hickman used to be a pilot. Two of my men met with the South African weapons broker a few minutes ago and he disclosed that he delivered a DC-3 for Hickman to Port Said yesterday. I have a satellite image up on the screen now that shows a man the approximate size of Hickman and matching the 3-D profile you sent, who is opening the door as we speak.”

“That’s it, then,” Hanley interrupted. “He’s going for the Dome of the Rock.”

“We can’t shoot him down or we lose Abraham’s Stone,” Overholt said. “We have to let him do the drop.”

“Okay, sir,” Hanley said, “let me warn Cabrillo.”

HANLEY HUNG UP with Overholt and radioed out to the Robinson.

“Turn it around,” Cabrillo said to Adams once Hanley explained.

Adams started a wide turn to the left.

“I want everyone but Murphy and Lincoln on the ground and at the Dome of the Rock ASAP,” Cabrillo said. “Have those two start targeting the missile battery.”

“It will be done right away,” Hanley said.

“Call back Overholt and have him keep the Israelis at bay,” Cabrillo said. “I want no planes in the air or any indication to Hickman that we are on to him.”

“Roger.”

“Then have Kevin Nixon call me back ASAP. I want to go over this thing of his one more time.”

“WHERE TO, SIR?” Adams asked.

“Downtown Jerusalem,” Cabrillo said, “the Dome of the Rock.”

Adams punched commands into the GPS as the Robinson came over the coastline again.

THE OPERATIVES ON the Oregonwere racing through the halls in preparation as Nixon made his way down the passageway to the control room. He opened the door and slipped inside.

Hanley hit the microphone button and Cabrillo instantly answered.

“I have Nixon here,” Hanley said, handing him the microphone.

“Kevin?” Cabrillo said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure what you have created will work? If you have doubts I need to know now.”

“I calculated the weight and doubled the height estimate you gave me and it was still within limits,” Nixon said. “As you know, nothing is perfect—but I’d have to say yes, it’ll work.”

“How long does it take for it to be load bearing?”

“Less than a minute,” Nixon said.

“And you have enough of the material?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said, “I produced more than we should need.”

“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “we’re going with your idea. There is no backup plan, however, so this has to work.”

“It will, sir,” Nixon said, “but there is one problem.”

“What?”

“We could lose the stone if it strikes the Dome.”

Cabrillo was silent for a second. “I’ll take care of that,” he said.

HICKMAN HAD NOT flown a plane for more than two decades but it came back to him like it was yesterday. After he climbed into the pilot’s seat, he went through the preflight and stoked up the engines. Puffs of smoke blew from the aging power plants as they were fired, but in a few minutes they settled down to a rickety fast idle.

Staring at the control panel, he located the various switches and made sure the crude autopilot was still hooked to the controls. Then, edging the old DC-3 forward, he called the control tower for clearance.

The airfield was quiet and he was given a runway immediately.

Easing the DC-3 forward, he tried the brakes. They were spongy but worked.

Hickman didn’t mind the soft brakes—this would be the last time they would ever be used. The DC-3 was on her last journey. He rolled forward and did a slow turn onto the runway and lined up.

Checking the gauges one last time, Hickman rolled on the throttles, raced down the runway and rotated. The DC-3 lifted into the air and struggled to climb. Hickman had just over two hundred miles to travel.

At full speed, and with a slight tailwind, he’d be there in an hour.

“I HAVE THE shore boats in the water,” Stone said, “and I’ve arranged an Israeli transport helicopter to ferry the team of ten from Tel Aviv to a location near the Dome of the Rock. The chopper is too large to use our pad. That’s it there.”

Stone pointed to a monitor that showed a camera image from the bow of the Oregon.The large double-rotor helicopter was just touching down on the sand in the distance.

“I’m going to the conference room,” Hanley said.

He sprinted down the hall and opened the door of the conference room and burst inside. “Okay, people,” he said, “the boats are ready and we have a chopper onshore to fly you the rest of the way. Is everyone up-to-date on what we’re doing?”

The ten people all nodded.

“Mr. Seng is in charge,” Hanley said. “Good luck.”

The team began to filter out of the conference room, each holding a large cardboard box. Hanley stopped Nixon as he passed.

“Do you have the rope ladder?” he asked.

“It’s here in this box on the top.”

“Okay then,” Hanley said, following him down the hall to the rear deck.

Hanley watched from the rear deck until the two boats were loaded and had set off the short distance toward shore. Then he walked back inside to check on Murphy and Lincoln.

“WHERE AM I going to drop you off?” Adams asked.

“We’re going right to the Dome of the Rock,” Cabrillo said. “By then the team from the Oregonwill have arrived.”

“Then what?”

“Let me explain,” Cabrillo said.

A couple of minutes later, when Cabrillo had finished, Adams whistled lightly. “With all the high-tech toys the Corporation has in its arsenal it’s come down to this.”

“It’s like a high-wire act in the circus,” Cabrillo agreed.

THE TEAM FROM the Oregonclimbed off the helicopter on a closed street near the Dome of the Rock. Israeli tanks blocked all the side streets nearby and Israeli army platoons were sweeping the streets and the mosque of people. Crowds of Palestinians, not knowing their revered shrine was in jeopardy, began to protest and the Israelis had to keep them back with water cannons.

Seng led the team to the entrance to the mosque. “Spread out and take your positions,” he told his team. “Kevin, make sure the rope is in place first.”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said as the team trotted off into the mosque courtyard.

Seng turned to an Israeli army officer standing nearby.

“I need hoses attached to the fire hydrants on all sides and then run inside the mosque,” Seng said. “Make sure we have enough hose to reach anywhere inside we want.”

The officer began shouting orders.

HICKMAN FLEW ALONG over the Mediterranean. He was filled with a sense of a life at an end. And the life had been a failure. All his riches, the fame, and successes meant nothing in the end. The one thing he had wished to do right he had butchered. He had never been a good father to his son. Preoccupied with grandiosity and infused with a self-importance that allowed no other human being to come too close, he was never able to allow the love of a child for a parent to penetrate his shell.

Only Chris Hunt’s death had caused it to open.

For Hickman the stages of grief had stopped at cold hatred. Anger toward a religion that fostered fanatics who killed without qualms, an anger toward the symbols they cherished.

Soon those symbols would be gone—and while Hickman would only see the first fruits of his labors, he knew he would die happy in the knowledge that the rest would soon crumble.

It would not be long now, he thought, as he glimpsed the first sight of the coastline.

Not long until Islam was ripped asunder.

NIXON AND GANNON unpacked a rope ladder from a cardboard box and quickly stretched it out on the courtyard alongside the Dome of the Rock. There was no way it would be long enough.

“I’ll open the backup,” Nixon said, cutting the tape on a second box with his knife and pulling out the second coiled ladder. “How are you with knots?”

“I own a sailboat,” Gannon said, “so I guess I qualify.”

Gannon began to splice the ends of the two ladders together. Around the Dome of the Rock, the other members of the team began to remove large plastic bags containing white powder from other cardboard boxes.

Near the entrance by the Silsila Minaret, Seng watched as the Israelis pulled hoses through the opening. “Leave them there,” Seng ordered. “My people will take them the rest of the way inside.”

Walking to all four sides of the massive mosque complex, Seng repeated the instructions. Soon, teams from the Corporation began pulling the hoses inside.

“Okay,” Gannon said a few minutes later, “it’s all together.”

“Now we need to start at this side and carefully coil it up,” Nixon said.

With Gannon pulling, Nixon formed the ladder into an orderly pile.

MURPHY STARED AT the trajectory lines on the computer screen, then turned and stared at Hanley. “Is there any budget on this little party?” he asked.

“None,” Hanley said.

“Good,” Murphy said, “because this little barrage is close to a million if you want guaranteed success.”

“Go big or go home,” Hanley said.

Lincoln was staring at a track line that showed the inbound DC-3. “Let’s hope this course remains the same,” Lincoln said, “and that what you hypothesize is true.”

“From the angle of his camera,” Hanley said, “it seems like he’s going to come in low for the drop. That would make the destruction of Abraham’s Stone more visible. If he dropped it from up high, he’d need to have the camera lens set on wide-angle and it wouldn’t give the picture much detail when it shattered.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Lincoln said. “I’m worried about the second pass.”

“To make sure the DC-3 destroys the Dome,” Hanley said, “he has to know he’ll need to climb up several thousand feet then dive down.”

“We entered the climb rate of the DC-3 into the computer,” Murphy said, “and set the parameters for two thousand feet extra elevation. That takes the flight out here.”

Murphy pointed to the monitor.

“Perfect,” Hanley said.

Murphy smiled. “Me and Lincoln think so too.”

HICKMAN WAS STILL nine minutes away when Adams passed over the courtyard surrounding the Dome of the Rock and lowered the helicopter down to where Nixon was waving. Nixon raced under the spinning rotor blade and handed Cabrillo the end of the rope through the open door, then raced back away.

“Slow and steady,” Cabrillo said through the headset.

“That’s my middle name,” Adams said confidently.

Carefully lifting off, Adams manipulated the controls with all the finesse of a surgeon. Bringing the Robinson up slowly, Adams crabbed sideways as Cabrillo played out the rope. A thin web began to form over the Dome. Reaching the far side, Adams hovered a few feet off the ground and Cabrillo dropped the end of the ladder. Meadows and Ross each took a side and pulled out the slack, then stood there holding the ladder taut. Nets hung down from the rope ladders.

“Now if you could drop me off on the top,” Cabrillo said, smiling across the cockpit, “I’d appreciate it.”

Adams lifted up slowly and carefully came close to the Dome. Cabrillo opened the door cautiously and stepped out onto the skid. Then with a little wave at Adams, he stepped across and grabbed the rope rung of the ladder.

Adams carefully backed away then landed on a street nearby.

Cabrillo was atop the Dome. He stared up at a large silver plane approaching in the distance. He pulled the nets as tight as he could.

“GO, GO, GO, go, go,” Seng shouted to the seven members of the team.

They quickly began to spread the powder across the courtyard like farmers of old sowing seeds. Once they were finished, they ran to the fire hoses and waited for the orders to spray.

Nixon and Gannon were manning a hose. Nixon had the nozzle, Gannon was behind him holding the hose in place. “You’re sure this will work, old buddy?” Gannon asked.

“It’ll work,” Nixon said. “It’s the cleanup that will be a problem.”

HICKMAN DIDN’T NOTICE that no Israeli jets had been scrambled to intercept him. He simply thought that his coming in low had brought the DC-3 under the radar. Setting the autopilot, he walked back to the cargo bay and opened the door.

Abraham’s Stone was still wrapped in the blanket. Hickman removed it and clutched it in his hands.

“Good riddance,” he said quietly, “to you and all you stand for.”

Through the side window he could see the mosque complex approaching. He had calculated that at the speed the DC-3 traveled, to hit the Dome itself he would need to toss out the meteorite just as the nose of the plane reached the edge of the first wall.

Hickman would never see the stone strike the Dome, but that’s why he had cameras.

“NOW, NOW, NOW,” Seng shouted as he heard the noise of the approaching DC-3.

The teams at the hoses opened the nozzles and sprayed the powder on the ground. The water was the catalyst. As soon as it hit the dust, the tiny grains of powder began to expand and interlock into a dense foam material. The dust grew to nearly two feet in height. Gannon felt himself rise in the air as the spray from the hose he was handling wet the dust beneath his feet. The weight of his body made an imprint of his feet in the foam.

HICKMAN STARED OUT the side window and timed the release. As soon as he saw the wall around the mosque he tossed out Abraham’s Stone. Then he ran back toward the cockpit to start his climb for the suicide run while the heavy stone dropped through the air, end over end, toward the Dome.

IF THIS HAD been a movie, Cabrillo, clutching the ladder, would have batted the stone away from the Dome and saved the day. Or Abraham’s Stone would have landed in the net and been saved. As it was, Cabrillo’s presence atop his perch would prove unnecessary.

Hickman’s toss fell short.

Had the foam not been applied to the courtyard, the stone would have shattered as it struck the marble flooring. Instead, it tumbled down and stuck in the foam a good ten feet from the edge of the Dome. Penetrating the surface of the foam almost a foot, it lay cradled and protected like a fine firearm in a custom-built case.

Seng raced over and stared down at the stone. “Nobody touches it,” he shouted. “We have a Muslim CIA agent outside that will handle it.”

SENG REACHED FOR his radio and called out to Hanley on the Oregon.

“I’ll explain later, but the stone is secured,” Seng said. “Could you radio Adams to pick the chairman back up?”

Hanley turned to Stone. “Make the call, please.”

While Stone was on the radio, Hanley stood alongside Murphy and Lincoln at the firing station. One deck above off the rear of the Oregon,a computer-guided missile battery was slowly tracking the DC-3.

The DC-3 was traveling at three miles per minute. By the time Hickman had made his way back to the cockpit and gotten back into the pilot’s seat to start the climb, he was ten miles past Jerusalem and about an equal distance from the Dead Sea.

Pulling back on the yoke, Hickman climbed higher.

“Thirty more seconds and any wreckage will be away from any Palestinian settlements,” Lincoln said.

Hickman was far from an innocent; still, the Corporation were not murderers. If Hickman continued on toward Jordan, they’d try to catch him on the ground there. If he started a turn, they would have no choice. The only reason Hickman would turn back toward Jerusalem was to make a suicide run.

The DC-3 was seconds from crossing above the Dead Sea.

“Sir,” Murphy said, “the computer detects the turn starting.”

“You have sanction,” Hanley said quietly.

“Time note,” Lincoln said, reading off the date and time.