Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

“We’ve had a hitch,” he said. After he explained the situation, the other party answered.

“Not to worry, sir,” he said confidently, “we’re trained for contingencies.”

17

AS SOON ASthe snow and cold had started to extinguish the fire from the ruptured fuel tank, Al-Khalifa had pried open the door of the Eurocopter. A quick check of the bodies had revealed open, sightless eyes that seemed to indicate death had come quickly. Al-Khalifa had not bothered to try to identify the men—quite frankly he did not care who they were. They were Westerners and they were dead, and that was enough.

His main concern was the recovery of the meteorite, and for that he’d needed to climb through the rear door to where the box had wedged itself against a seat. Removing the box and climbing out of the helicopter, he’d opened the latch and flipped open the top.

The meteorite was inside, lying on foam and shielded by lead panels inside the box.

Closing the box again, he made his way through the snow to the Kawasaki HK-500D, placed the box on the passenger seat and secured it in place with the seat belt. Then he climbed into the pilot’s seat, started the engine and lifted off. As he flew out over the snow-covered terrain, the box sat on the seat like an honored guest, not a deadly sphere of poison destined to sicken an unknowing populace.

Reaching for the radio, Al-Khalifa alerted the crew of the Akbarhe would soon be back on board. Once he reached the vessel, they could make their way to London and complete the mission. The wrath of the righteous would soon find flight.

After that he could deal with the emir and the overthrow of the Qatari government.

“GIVE ME SOME good news,” Cabrillo said as he turned his back to the increasingly strong winds.

“We located the Akbaron the radar,” Hanley said. “We’re a couple hours away. I’m planning an assault now to get our man back.”

Cabrillo was watching the signal strength on the telephone. He moved to receive a stronger connection. “I’m at the site where the Eurocopter went down,” he said. “It was shot out of the sky by the mystery chopper. The pilot and passenger are dead—and the meteorite is nowhere to be seen.”

“Are you sure?” Hanley asked.

“Positive. There’s a single set of tracks coming from a distance away. I followed them until I came to indentations in the snow from the other helicopter. Whoever shot down the Eurocopter now has the meteorite.”

“I’ll have Stone try to track the course of the helicopter on radar,” Hanley said. “He couldn’t have gone far. If it’s an MD helicopter, we’re looking at a range of three hundred fifty miles in total. Since he couldn’t refuel, he’s somewhere within a one-hundred-seventy-five-mile radius of where you are.”

“Tell Stone to try something else as well,” Cabrillo said. “I managed to sand the meteorite before it was stolen.”

Sandwas the slang name the Corporation used for the microscopic homing bugs Cabrillo had sprinkled on the orb in the darkness. They looked like dust to the untrained eye, but they emitted a signal that could be read by the electronics on the Oregon.

“Damn, you’re good,” Hanley said.

“Not good enough, someone else has our prize.”

“We’ll track it down,” Hanley said.

“Call me when you know something.”

After disconnecting, Cabrillo started trudging back to the cave through the snow.

EIGHTY MILES DISTANT and undetectable on the Akbar’s radar scope, the scene aboard the motor yacht Free Enterprisewas more subdued. The men on board were infused with a fervor that rivaled the Muslims on the Akbar—they were simply more highly trained and not accustomed to grand shows of emotions. Each man was white, over six feet in height, and in excellent shape. Each had served in the U.S. military in one capacity or another. All of them had personal reasons for accepting this assignment. Each of them was ready to die for the cause.

Scott Thompson, the leader of the team on the Free Enterprise,was in the wheelhouse awaiting a call. As soon as he received it, they would launch the assault. West and East were about to collide in an affair conducted in secret.

The Free Enterprisewas racing south through a thick fog. In the past hour the ship had come alongside a trio of icebergs, the tops of which had covered at least an acre. Smaller floes were too numerous to count, and they bobbed on the seas like ice cubes in a highball glass. It was bitterly cold outside and the wind was increasing.

“Active engaged,” said the captain.

High up on the Free Enterprise’s superstructure an electronics package began capturing radar signals from other vessels. Then it broadcast the signals back at varying speeds. Without a consistent signal return, the other ships’ radars could not paint the Free Enterprise.

The ship had become an unseen wraith on the black, tossing seas.

A tall man with a crew cut entered the pilothouse.

“I just finished running all the data,” he said. “Our best guess is that Hughes is gone.”

“Then there’s a good chance that whoever was hunting Hughes recovered the meteorite,” the captain noted.

“The big man is tracking the helicopter at one of his space companies in Las Vegas.”

“And where is the helicopter headed?” the captain asked.

“That’s the good part,” the man said, “right to our intended target.”

“Sounds like we can kill two birds with one stone,” the captain said.

“Exactly.”

ADAMS WAS AN excellent pilot, but the growing darkness and wind were making his hands sweat. He’d been flying only on instruments since leaving the Oregon.Wiping his palms on his flight suit, he turned the cockpit heater down and studied the navigation screen. At his current speed he was due to pass over the coastline in two minutes. Increasing his altitude to clear the start of the mountain range, he scanned the instruments again.

The lack of visibility made it like walking around with a paper bag over your head.

CABRILLO WASN’T SURE if Ackerman was dead or alive.

From time to time Cabrillo would feel what seemed like a faint pulse, but the wound was no longer bleeding—and that was a bad sign. Ackerman had not moved a muscle since Cabrillo had returned to the cave. His eyes were closed and the lids were motionless. Cabrillo propped him up so the wound was below his heart and then covered him with a sleeping bag. There was not much else he could do for him.

Then his telephone rang.

“The signal from the meteorite is leading right to the Akbar,” Hanley said.

“Al-Khalifa,” Cabrillo spat out. “I wonder how he found out about the meteorite.”

“I alerted Overholt that Echelon has a leak,” Hanley said, “that’s the only way.”

“So the Hammadi Group is trying to produce a dirty bomb,” Cabrillo said, “but that doesn’t explain who the first people that grabbed it were.”

“We haven’t been able to find out any information on the passenger,” Hanley said, “but my guess is that it was someone working with Al-Khalifa and they had a falling out.”

Cabrillo thought for a minute. It was a plausible explanation—maybe the only one that made sense—still, he had an uneasy feeling. “I guess we’ll know when we recover the meteorite and liberate the emir.”

“That’s the plan,” Hanley agreed.

“Then this will be over,” Cabrillo said.

“Neat as a pin.”

Neither Cabrillo nor Hanley could foresee that the outcome was still days away.

Nor did they know it would be anything but neat.

“Have Huxley call me,” Cabrillo said. “I need some medical advice.”

“You got it,” Hanley said as he rang off.

ON BOARD THE Akbar,high-powered landing lights were flicked on to light the landing pad.

Off to the side, a pair of Arabs watched as Al-Khalifa lined up over the fantail then eased forward and touched down. As soon as the helicopter’s skids touched the deck, the two men raced under the spinning rotor blade and secured the skids to the deck.

The blade slowed as Al-Khalifa pulled on the rotor brake, and once it was stopped he climbed out and walked around to the passenger side. Taking the box in his hands, he walked to the door to the main salon and waited until it was opened.

He walked inside and approached the long table and sat the box on the top.

As he unfastened the clasp and flipped the lid open, the terrorists gathered around and stared at the orb in silence. Then Al-Khalifa reached down and lifted the heavy sphere and held it over his head.

“A million more infidels dead,” he said grandly, “and London in ruins.”

“Praise be to Allah,” the terrorists shouted.

“ONE MILE DEAD ahead,” the captain of the Free Enterprisesaid, “moving at fifteen knots.”

A total of nine men dressed in black waterproof uniforms were clustered in the pilothouse. The men were armed with rifles on slings, handguns, and grenades.

The Free Enterprisewas dead in the water. Outside on her rear deck, a large black bulletproof inflatable boat was being lowered over the side. Fifty-millimeter machine guns were mounted on the bow and stern of the inflatable. Mounted to the rigid fiberglass floor of the vessel was a high-performance gasoline engine.

The boat disappeared over the side and splashed into the water.

“We go in at the stern,” the leader said, “neutralize the targets, retrieve the meteorite, and then get out again. I want us back on board in five minutes tops.”

“Will there be any friendlies?” one of the men asked.

“One,” the leader said, handing out a photograph.

“What do we do with him?”

“Protect him if you can,” the leader said, “but not if it means your own life.”

“Leave him on board?”

“He’s of no use to us,” the leader said, “now let’s go.”

The men filed out of the pilothouse and onto the rear deck. They walked in single file down a set of steps built along the hull to a small platform where the inflatable was docked and idling. As soon as the men were all aboard, one of them took up position behind the wheel, engaged the drive and steered away from the Free Enterprise.

At a speed of fifty-five knots it did not take long for the inflatable to reach the Akbar.

Once they reached the rear of the yacht, the man operating the inflatable held his vessel against the rear swim platform of the steaming Akbarwith a judicious application of power. The men stepped onto the platform and the captain of the inflatable backed away a short distance and kept pace with the yacht. Slowly the eight men made their way topside.

THE PRISONER IN the cabin on the Akbarhad managed to free his hands but not his legs. Hobbling over to the toilet, he drained his bladder and then sat back on the bed and refastened his hands. If someone didn’t show up soon to rescue him, he’d have to take matters into his own hands. He was hungry, and when he got hungry he got mad.

ONE DECK ABOVE, the only sound that could be heard was a light thumping of boots covered by felt liners as the men from the Free Enterprisespread out throughout the Akbar.In a few seconds, the sounds of light popping like lazy popcorn filtered through the ship. That was followed by the sound of bodies hitting the deck.

A few seconds later the door to the prisoner’s cabin was flung open and a man in a black hood shined a light in his face. The man in the hood looked at him again, consulted a photograph in his hand and then closed the door. The prisoner began to tug at the coating covering his face.

The Akbarbegan to slow, then stopped.

Moving rapidly, four of the men weighed down the terrorists’ bodies, starting with their leader, and dumped them over the side while the other half of the team cleaned up the blood. Four minutes and forty seconds after first standing on the deck of the Akbar,they were filing down to the swim platform once again.

The leader of the team from the Free Enterprisecarefully placed a box in the rear of the inflatable and the men filed back aboard. The driver engaged the throttles and the black boat skimmed quickly across the water toward her mother ship.

A frozen pizza would have taken longer to cook than the assault on the Akbar.

Once the team was back on board and the inflatable was stowed on deck, the captain of the Free Enterprisepulled alongside the Akbar.The fog had cleared a little and the Akbar’s lights glinted off the black water of the ocean. The yacht was bobbing in place like a boat anchored over a reef. The difference was that here the water was too cold to dive—plus there was no one left aboard, save one, who could come out to play.

The Free Enterprisesteamed past, then the captain gradually increased its speed.

18

ADAMS HOVERED THERobinson helicopter above Mount Forel, then used the remote speaker to send out the sound of an air horn. He waited a few minutes then caught sight of a green glowing light from below. Flying a short distance toward the light, he sounded the air horn again to give Cabrillo warning to move away from the landing pad, then he set the helicopter down on the snow. Once the rotor blade had stopped spinning, he climbed out.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said as Cabrillo walked over, “I’m glad I found you. It’s as black as a sack of licorice out here.”

“Everyone get out of Iceland safely?”

“It all went according to plan,” Adams said.

“That’s one bright spot,” Cabrillo said. “Now, how are we for weight?”

“With the two of us aboard and fuel, we still have a few hundred pounds left over. Why do you ask?”

“We have another passenger,” Cabrillo said.

“Who?”

“A civilian who was shot,” Cabrillo told him. “I think it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Is he dead or alive?”

“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look good,” Cabrillo said, pointing toward the entrance to the cave. “Go into the cave, then carry him out to the helicopter. I’ll move the snowcat over and begin refueling.”

Adams nodded and started walking up the hill. At the entrance he stopped and stared north. Along the horizon blue and green lights flickered and danced like wispy sheets of fabric illuminated by dancing light. The plasma that comprised the Northern Lights was putting on a show, and Adams felt a chill from the unnatural scene.

Turning on his heels, he entered the cave.

CABRILLO CLIMBED INTO the snowcat and drove it over to the helicopter. He began to transfer the fuel using a hand-cranked pump on the top of the spare tank. He was just finishing filling the Robinson’s second tank when Adams appeared through the darkness carrying Ackerman, who was still inside the sleeping bag. Carefully placing the archaeologist into the rear seat, he attached a seat belt then walked around to Cabrillo.

“I’ve got some bottles of octane booster that need to be added,” he said.

“Give them to me and I’ll put them in. I want you to get Huxley on the radio and ask her if there is anything we can do for our passenger. Explain that he has a serious bullet wound and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Adams nodded then reached into a storage compartment and removed the two bottles of octane booster and handed them to Cabrillo. Then he climbed into the pilot’s seat and turned on the radio. He climbed back out once he had completed the call, then reached back into the storage compartment and retrieved a collapsible snow shovel. As Cabrillo finished the refueling, Adams began shoveling snow into Ackerman’s sleeping bag.

“She said to ice him down and slow his heartbeat,” Adams said as Cabrillo walked over, “to induce hypothermia and put him into a suspended state.”

“How long until we reach the Oregon?” Cabrillo asked.

“They were steaming at full speed when I took off,” Adams noted, “so that will shave some time off the return trip. If I had to guess, I’d estimate about an hour.”

Cabrillo nodded and brushed some snow from his eyebrows. “I’ll move the snowcat,” he said, “you fire this up and get everything to operating temperatures.”

“Got it.”

Four minutes later, Cabrillo climbed into the passenger seat of the idling helicopter. A few seconds more and Adams engaged the clutch and set the rotor blades spinning, and a minute after that he lifted the helicopter from the snow.

ABOARD THE OREGON,Hanley was working on the plan for the assault on the Akbar. Off to one side of the control room, Eddie Seng was sketching out notes on a yellow pad. Eric Stone walked over to where Hanley was seated and pointed at the large monitor on the wall. The image showed Greenland’s coastline, the location of the Akbar,and the course the Oregonwas steaming.

“Sir,” he said, pointing, “the Akbarhas not moved in fifteen minutes. The same, however, cannot be said for the meteorite. If the signal from the sand is correct, it’s moving farther away.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hanley noted. “Could we be receiving a false reading?”

Stone nodded affirmatively. “With the Northern Lights acting up and the curvature of the earth this far north, we could be getting a skip in signals off the ionosphere.”

“How long until we reach the Akbar?” Hanley asked.

“We were about an hour away,” Stone said. “Now that she’s stopped, it shaves ten minutes or so off that estimate.”

“Eddie,” Hanley asked, “can you have your men ready earlier?”

“Sure,” Seng said, “the first man aboard does most of the work. Once he sprays the paralytic agent into the air duct and the bad guys go to sleep, the rest is just mopping up and securing the ship.”

Stone had walked back to his chair. He was studying a radio frequency graph that showed signal strengths on the various bands. “We’re picking up something down low,” he said.

“See if you can tune it in,” Hanley ordered.

Stone fiddled with a dial then pushed a button on the console to boost the receiving strength. Then he flicked on the speaker.

“Portland, Salem, Bend,” a voice said, “okay to transmit.”

ON THE AKBAR, the prisoner had managed to free his hands again and his legs. Listening at the door of his cabin he’d heard nothing, so he’d cracked the door and peered out. There was no one in the hall. He’d slowly searched the ship from stem to stern and found it empty.

Then he had tugged off his latex mask.

He’d made his way to the pilothouse and had reached for the radio.

“Portland, Salem, Bend,” he repeated, “okay to transmit.”

ON THE OREGON, Hanley reached for the microphone to answer. “This is Oregon,identify.”

“Six, eleven, fifty-nine.”

“Murph,” Hanley asked, “what are you doing on the radio?”

“THAT WAS A bold plan,” Adams said as he flew the helicopter through the black sky, “using a double for the emir of Qatar.”

“We’ve known Al-Khalifa was planning a move on the emir for some time,” Cabrillo said, “and the emir went along with our little operation. He wants Al-Khalifa out of the picture as much as we do.”

“You eaten lately?” Adams asked. “I brought some sandwiches and cookies plus some milk. They’re in a bag on the rear seat.”

Cabrillo nodded and reached back onto the seat next to Ackerman. He opened a padded cooler bag and removed a sandwich. “Do you have any coffee?”

“A pilot without coffee?” Adams said lightly. “That’s like a fisherman without worms. There’s a thermos on the floor back there. It’s my special Italian roast blend.”

Cabrillo retrieved the thermos and poured a cup. He took a couple sips then placed the cup on the floor by his feet and took a bite of the sandwich.

“So it was planned all along to have the fake emir kidnapped?” Adams asked.

“Nope,” Cabrillo said, “we figured we could grab Al-Khalifa before he made his move. The one bright spot is that we’re certain Al-Khalifa has no plans to kill the emir—he just wants him to abdicate the throne in favor of the Al-Khalifa clan. Our man should be as safe as a cow at a vegetarian’s conference as long as he’s not found out as a fake.”

Cabrillo ate another third of the sandwich.

“Sir,” Adams said, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Cabrillo said, taking the last bite of sandwich and reaching for the coffee.

“What the hell were you doing in Greenland, and who exactly is that guy that’s near death in the back of my helicopter?”

“AL-KHALIFA AND HIS men took off,” Murphy said. “I’m the only one left on board as far as I can tell.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hanley said. “Is the helicopter still on board?”

“I saw it sitting on the rear deck,” Murphy said.

“And you walked the entire yacht?”

“Yep. It’s as if they never existed.”

“Hold on,” Hanley said, turning to Stone.

“Thirty-eight minutes, sir,” Stone said to the unasked question.

“Murph,” Hanley said, “we’ll be there in a half hour. See what you can dig up before we arrive.”

“Will do,” Murphy said.

“We’ll be there soon,” Hanley said, “and then we can figure this all out.”

“I RECEIVED A call from our contact at the CIA,” Cabrillo said. “When we were in Reykjavik, Echelon intercepted an e-mail pertaining to a meteorite comprised of iridium. The CIA was concerned about it falling into the wrong hands, so they asked me to fly over and secure it. That gentleman,” he said, motioning to the rear, “is the man that discovered it.”

“He dug it out of the cave?”

“Not exactly,” Cabrillo said. “You didn’t have a chance to take the tour. There’s a large shrine that was built on a shaft above the one you were in—very elaborate. Someone long ago must have unearthed the meteorite and fancied it as a religious or spiritual artifact. The guy in back is an archaeologist who somehow found a clue and tracked down the site.”

Adams adjusted his flight controls then spoke into his headset. “ Oregon,this is air one. We’re twenty minutes out.”

After receiving a reply from Stone in the control room, he continued. “The whole thing seems odd. Even if the meteorite has historical value, I don’t see rival archaeologists killing each other over a find. They probably dream about doing that, but I’ve never heard about an instance.”

“Right now,” Cabrillo said, “it looks like Al-Khalifa and the Hammadi Group intercepted the e-mail and recovered the meteorite for the iridium. They must want to construct a dirty bomb with the material.”

“If that’s the case,” Adams said, “then they must already have a working bomb of some sort to use as the catalyst. Otherwise they have a fuel and no fire.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Then after our team recovers the meteorite, we still need to locate the mother bomb.”

“Once we have Al-Khalifa,” Cabrillo said, “we’ll make him give up the location of the weapon. Then a crew can be sent to disable it and we’ll be through.”

Cabrillo didn’t know it yet, but Al-Khalifa was on the bottom of the ocean.

Right next to a series of geothermal vents.