Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

19

THOMAS DWYER WASa name that sounded serious and staid. Even Dwyer’s title, scientist of theoretical physics, made one imagine a pipe-smoking academic. An egghead, or a man who lived a carefully controlled existence. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Dwyer was the captain of his darts team at the neighborhood pub, raced rally cars on the weekends, and chased single women with a purpose his forty years of age had not diminished. Dwyer bore a passing resemblance to the actor Jeff Goldblum, dressed more like a movie producer than a scientist, and read nearly twenty newspapers and magazines a day. He was smart, imaginative and bold, and was as up-to-date on current events and trends as a fashion maven.

His job title, however, could bring back the notion of a more serious side. His business cards read Central Intelligence Agency, Thomas W. Dwyer (TD)—Senior Scientist Theoretical Applications. Dwyer was a spook-scientist.

At the moment, Dwyer was hanging upside down in a pair of gravity inversion boots that were attached to a bar that was secured to the doorjamb leading into his inner office. He was stretching his back and thinking.

“Mr. Dwyer,” a junior scientist said meekly.

Dwyer glanced toward the voice. He could see a pair of scuffed brown leather shoes over white athletic socks leading to a pair of pants with the hem a touch too high. Arching his back, Dwyer raised his head enough to see who was speaking.

“Yes, Tim?”

“I was assigned something I think is above my level,” the scientist said quietly.

Dwyer reached up with his arms and grabbed the bar across the door. Then he twisted himself around like a gymnast, removed the ankle boots from the bar and dropped to the floor in one smooth motion.

“Saw that move in the last Olympics,” Dwyer said, smiling. “What do you think?”

“Great, sir,” the younger man said softly.

Walking into his office, Dwyer sat down behind his desk then bent over and started removing the boots from his ankles. The younger scientist followed meekly, holding in his hands a file stamped with the words “Echelon A-1.” Dwyer finished removing the boots, tossed them in a corner of his office and reached out so Tim could hand him the file. He removed a sticker from the front, initialed it quickly and handed it back to the junior scientist.

“It’s my problem now,” he said, smiling. “I’ll analyze it and write the report.”

“Thanks, Mr. Dwyer,” Tim said.

“Call me TD,” Dwyer said, “everyone else does.”

THOMAS “TD” DWYER was sitting in his office with his feet up on the desk.

In his hand was a thesis on the natural formation of buckminsterfullerenes, more commonly called buckyballs, on meteorites. The spherical orbs—named for famed American architect R. Buckminster Fuller, who was most noted for designing the geodesic dome—are the roundest and most symmetrical large molecules known to man. Discovered in 1985 during a space experiment with carbon molecules, buckyballs have continued to astound scientists.

When the hollow area inside the sphere is filled with cesium, it produces the finest organic semiconductor that has ever been tested. Experiments with pure carbon buckyballs have created a lubricant with almost no drag. Possible applications included the development of nonpolluting engines, the timed introduction of medicines, and more advanced nanotechnology devices. The field of development was wide open and growing.

Though the future uses were interesting, Dwyer was not concerned with that. He was more concerned with the present. Naturally occurring buckyballs had been found in the location of meteorite craters. When these samples had been examined, both argon and helium gases had been found in the hollow area of the spheres.

Dwyer pondered this for a moment.

First he imagined two geodesic domes placed together to form an orb the size of a kick ball, or about the same size as the meteorite in the photograph. Then he imagined the void inside filled with gases. Next he imagined piercing the orb with a skewer or lopping off the top with a sword. Whatever gas inside would leak out. Then what? Helium and argon were harmless and existed in abundance in nature. But what if these gases contained something else? Something not of this world?

Opening the telephone directory inside his computer, he located a number and entered the command for the computer to dial. Once the computer signaled the line was ringing, Dwyer reached over and picked up his phone.

Across the country, three time zones distant, a man walked toward his ringing phone.

“Nasuki,” a voice answered.

“Mike, you old hack, this is TD.”

“TD, you Mensa reject you, how’s the spy game?” Nasuki asked.

“I’d tell you, but it’s so secret I’d have to kill myself.”

“That’s secret,” Nasuki agreed.

“I have a favor to ask,” Dwyer said.

Miko “Mike” Nasuki was an astronomer with the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration. NOAA is a division of the Commerce Department. The agency had a broad base to conduct scientific research, though they usually worked with hydrography.

“Is this a no one should know we had this conversationfavor?”

“That’s right,” Dwyer said, “all hypothetical and off the record.”

“All right,” Nasuki said, “let me have it.”

“I’m looking into meteorites and particularly the formation of buckyballs.”

“That’s right up my alley,” Nasuki said, “cutting-edge stuff.”

“Have you ever heard any theories about the makeup of the gases inside the spheres themselves?” Dwyer said carefully. “Perhaps why helium and argon are prevalent?”

“Mainly, those are the most common gases that would occur on another planet.”

“So,” Dwyer noted, “the potential is there for the inside of the balls to be filled with other substances. Things not normally found on earth.”

Nasuki thought for a moment. “Sure, TD. I attended a symposium a few months ago where someone presented a paper that made the argument that the dinosaurs had been wiped out from a virus from space.”

“Brought in by a meteorite?” Dwyer asked.

“Exactly,” Nasuki said. “There is one problem, however.”

“What’s that?”

“A meteorite sixty-five million years old has yet to be discovered.”

“Do you remember any details about the theory?”

Nasuki searched his memory. “The gist was that extraterrestrial microbes inside the helium were released on impact, and those that didn’t burn up poisoned the life that existed at that time. There were two major points,” Nasuki continued. “The first was that the microbes were a fast-spreading virus like a super-flu, SARS, or AIDS that attacked the dinosaurs physically.”

“What was the second?” Dwyer asked.

“That whatever was trapped inside the helium actually changed the atmosphere itself,” Nasuki said, “perhaps altered the molecular structure of the air itself.”

“Like what?” Dwyer asked.

“Depleted all the oxygen, that sort of thing.”

“So the dinosaurs actually choked to death?” Dwyer asked incredulously.

Nasuki gave a low chuckle. “TD,” he said, “it’s just a theory.”

“What if a meteorite formed primarily of iridium existed in a complete form,” Dwyer asked, “not shattered by impact?”

“Iridium, as you know, is both extremely hard and relatively radioactive,” Nasuki said. “It would make an almost perfect delivery system for a gas-borne pathogen. The radiation might even mutate the virus and change it. Make it stronger, different, whatever.”

“So,” Dwyer said, “it’s possible a mutant virus from millions of years and a billion miles away could be contained inside the molecules?”

“Abso-freaking-lutely,” Nasuki said.

“I’ve got to go,” Dwyer said quickly.

“Somehow,” Nasuki said, “I knew you were going to say that.”

20

AT ABOUT THEtime Cabrillo had touched down in Greenland, two men met in an abandoned waterfront building in Odesa, Ukraine, half a world away. Unlike the Hollywood staged switches, where teams of armed men converge on an area to switch cash for munitions, this gathering was decidedly less exciting. Just a pair of men, one large wooden crate, and one large black nylon bag containing the payoff.

“Payment is mixed like you requested,” one of the men said in English, “greenbacks, British pounds, Swiss Francs and Euros.”

“Thanks,” the second man said in Russian-accented English.

“And you had the records changed to show that this weapon was secretly sold to Iran in 1980?”

“Yes,” the second man answered. “From the old communist government to the radical Khomeini forces that overthrew the shah, with the money from the sale being used to fund the Russian occupation of Afghanistan.”

“The trigger?”

“We included a new one in the box.”

“Mighty white of you,” the first man said, smiling. He reached over and shook the second man’s hand. “You have that number to call if there is any trouble.”

“I will,” the second man said.

“You’re leaving the Ukraine, right?” the first man asked as he slid the crate along a roller ramp into the rear of a one-ton truck.

“Tonight.”

“I’d get far away,” the first man said as he pulled down the truck door and secured the latch.

“Australia far enough?”

“Australia would be just fine,” the first man said.

Then he walked to the front of the truck, climbed into the seat, shut the door and started the engine. Less than an hour later at a different dock the crate was loaded aboard an old cargo ship for the transit of the Black Sea—the first leg of a much longer journey.

AFTER LEAVING ODESA, the Greek cargo ship Larissabobbed on the swells as she steamed east through the Mediterranean. To the starboard, the rocky cliffs of Gibraltar rose into the sky.

“Dirty fuel,” the grubby mechanic said. “I cleaned the filter and it should be okay now. As for the clunking, I think that’s just piston slap. The diesels need rebuilding, badly.”

The captain nodded and puffed on an unfiltered cigarette, then he scratched his arm. A rash had started forming off Sardinia that now extended from wrist to elbow. There was little the captain could do—the Larissawas still fourteen hundred miles and four days from her destination. He stared up as a large oil tanker passed alongside, then reached over and opened a jar of petroleum jelly and slathered some on the raw skin.

His deadline for delivering his mysterious cargo was New Year’s Eve.

Now that the fuel problem was solved, he was starting to feel he’d make the London deadline. Once there, his plan was to make the delivery, drink in the New Year at a waterfront bar, then locate a doctor the following day to look at the rash.

The man had no way of knowing the next doctor he’d see would be a coroner.

21

THE VIEW FROMthe front window of the helicopter was a field of lights. On Hanley’s orders the crew of the Oregonhad lit all the available lights and the ship looked like a Christmas tree against the dark sky. Flying with only instruments was nerve-racking, and Adams was glad they could soon touch down. Lining up behind the stern, he descended and hovered at the rear of the ship then gradually eased forward until the Robinson was over the landing pad.

Then Adams lightly touched down and began the shutdown procedure.

“Hard flight,” Cabrillo said as he waited for the rotor blade to stop spinning.

“It was white knuckle most of the way,” Adams admitted.

“Hell of a job, George,” Cabrillo said.

Before Adams could answer, the Oregon’s medical officer, Julia Huxley, raced over and opened the door just as the rotor stopped and Adams engaged the brake. Right behind her was Franklin Lincoln.

“He’s in back,” Cabrillo said.

Huxley nodded and opened the rear door and quickly checked Ackerman’s vital signs. Then she stood back and Lincoln reached in and lifted the archaeologist, sleeping bag and all, into his arms. Carrying Ackerman in front at waist level, he raced for the sick bay with Huxley following closely. Hanley walked over as Cabrillo was climbing from the helicopter. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Murph called from the Akbar.”

“He’s compromised?” Cabrillo asked expectantly.

“Nope,” Hanley said as he steered Cabrillo toward the door leading into the interior of the Oregon,“he heard some noises and freed himself. After waiting a safe amount of time, he ventured from the cabin where he was being held and started searching around. The ship was empty and there was no sign where Al-Khalifa and his crew had gone, so he risked a call.”

The men had exited the rear deck and were heading down the passageway to the control room.

“Did he recover the meteorite?” Cabrillo asked.

“It was gone,” Hanley said as he opened the door to the control room. “We’re receiving tracking signals from the bugs you left, but they’re intermittent.”

The men walked into the control room.

“Where are the signals originating from?” Cabrillo asked.

Hanley pointed to a monitor. “There,” he said, “the track was heading north but now it’s heading east in the sea above Iceland.”

“He switched boats,” Cabrillo said, “but why?”

“That’s the question,” Hanley said.

“How far are we from the Akbar?”

Without replying, Stone entered commands into the computer and an image came onto a monitor on the wall. A video camera that was lit by spotlights on the Oregon’s bow was filming.

The Akbarwas dead ahead.

THE FREE ENTERPRISEwas steaming at full speed through the tossing seas.

“Stop at the Faeroe Islands,” a man said over a secure link. “I’ll have someone at the local airport to pick up the package.”

“Where do you want us after that?” the captain asked.

“Calais,” the man stated, “the rest of the team is there.”

“Very good, sir,” the captain said.

The man added, “One more thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Explain to the team they each have a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus coming,” he said, “and be sure they know that Hughes’s family will be well compensated for their loss.”

“I’ll do that, sir,” the captain said.

The man disconnected then reached for a folder on his desk. He removed the sale document for the British textile firm as well as the authorization for payment. He signed both, then fed them into a fax machine and awaited receipt.

Once he received the confirmation, he stood back for a moment.

The first part of his plan was now in place. Soon it would be time for the payback.

AT THE SAME time the fax was traveling to England over the telephone line, the cargo ship Larissawas rounding Cabo de Finisterre. The captain set a course for Brest, which was located on the point of France that led into the English Channel. The night air was cool and the skies overhead were clear with a blanket of billions of stars.

He watched as a comet streaked across the sky.

Nodding in approval, he lit a cigarette, sipped from a silver flask containing ouzo, and then scratched the itch on his arm. A thin trickle of blood oozed to the surface and he dabbed at it with a rag.

In two more days they’d reach London and then he’d have the rash examined.

USING THE COMPUTER-CONTROLLED thrusters, Hanley placed the Oregondirectly alongside the Akbar. Cabrillo was the first across, followed by Seng, Jones, Meadows and Linda Ross. Murphy was waiting on the deck. Pieces of his vinyl mask were still visible near his hairline. As soon as Cabrillo was on deck, Murphy motioned to the open door.

“Tell me what you heard and what happened afterward,” Cabrillo said as he followed Murphy into the main salon.

Murphy explained the light popping sounds and the masked man entering his cabin.

“It was all over in five minutes,” he said as the rest of the team finished filing into the salon. “I waited another ten minutes before venturing out.”

“Search every compartment,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want some answers.”

The team split up and fanned out through the vessel. Rifles and handguns were strewn about the staterooms, as well as clothing, personal items and suitcases. The beds were rumpled and some had the covers pulled back. Copies of the Koran were in every cabin and shoes were still sitting by the beds on the floor.

It was as if a UFO had come down and snatched the men into the heavens.

ON BOARD THE Oregon,Hanley made sure the thrusters were adjusted properly then turned to Stone. “Take the helm,” he said, “I’m going across.”

Stone slid into Hanley’s seat and began to adjust the cameras on deck so he could watch what was happening.

Hanley stepped across to the Akbarand made his way into the main salon. Meadows was waving a Geiger counter around the long dining table.

“It was here,” he said as Hanley passed through the room.

Just up the passageway Ross was holding a spray bottle containing blue liquid. She sprayed the walls then slipped on a pair of goggles as Hanley passed behind her. Hanley continued down to a stairway.

“If they transferred to another ship,” Cabrillo was saying to Murphy just as Hanley opened the door to the cabin, “why didn’t they take their personal belongings?”

“Maybe they didn’t want anything with them that might be traced back to here,” Hanley said.

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Cabrillo noted. “They go through the trouble to kidnap who they think is the emir of Qatar, then they leave him, as well as a multimillion-dollar yacht, unattended?”

“They must be planning on returning,” Murphy offered.

Right then Seng popped his head inside the cabin. “Mr. Chairman, Ross has something she wants to show you,” he said.

The four men filed down the passageway to where Ross was standing. On the wall were areas outlined with barriers of sprayed foam. The walls inside the barriers were tinted blue. Ross slid off the goggles and handed them to Cabrillo silently.

Cabrillo slid the goggles over his head and stared at the areas. The fluorescent glow of blood splatters looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. He slid off the goggles and handed them to Hanley.

“They tried to clean it off,” Ross said, “but it was a fast and dirty job.”

Just at that instant Stone’s voice came out of a radio clipped to Cabrillo’s belt.

“Mr. Cabrillo, Mr. Hanley,” he said, “there’s something you need to see.”

The two men walked down the hallway out through the main salon, then onto the rear deck and across to the Oregon. They quickly walked down the hall to the control room.

Cabrillo opened the door. Stone pointed to a monitor on the wall.

“I thought it was a dead baby whale,” he said, “until it flipped over and I saw a face.”

Just then another body surfaced.

“Have Reyes and Kasim fish them out,” Cabrillo said to Hanley, “I’m going back across.”

Cabrillo left the control room and stepped across to the Akbar. Seng was in the main salon when Cabrillo entered. “Meadows thinks that the object was only in here,” Seng said. “He’s looking through the rest of the ship, but so far it’s clean of radiation.”

Cabrillo nodded.

“Ross has found blood in the pilothouse and staterooms as well as in and around the main salon and passageways. The captain was on duty, the posted guards and the rest were sleeping. That would be my guess.”

Cabrillo nodded again.

“Whoever hit them, boss,” Seng said, “came in hard and fast.”

“I’m going to the pilothouse,” Cabrillo said, walking away.

Once there he examined the ship’s log. The last entry was only two hours old and it stated nothing out of the ordinary. Whoever the visitors were, they’d come unannounced.

After leaving the pilothouse, Cabrillo was walking down the hall when his radio was called.

“Mr. Cabrillo,” Huxley’s voice said, “come to the sick bay at once.”

Cabrillo made his way through the Akbarand back across to the Oregononce again.

Reyes and Kasim were out on the deck with boat hooks in their hands. They were pushing a body toward a lowered net hung from a cable attached to a derrick. Cabrillo made his way inside and headed down the passageway to the sick bay and opened the door.

Ackerman was lying on an exam table covered by electric warming blankets.

“He’s been trying to talk,” Huxley said. “I wrote it all down, but it was mostly gibberish until a few minutes ago.”

“What then?” Cabrillo asked, staring down at Ackerman, whose eyes had started to flutter. One eye cracked open just a touch.

“He started talking about the ghost,” she said, “not aghost, theGhost, as if it were a nickname.”

Just then Ackerman spoke again. “I should have never trusted the Ghost,” he said in a voice growing weaker by the word. “He bought and paid for the un…ivers…ity.”

Ackerman started convulsing. His body began to shake like a dog exiting the water.

“Mom,” he said weakly.

And then he died.

No matter how much Huxley shocked him, his heart would not start again. It was just after midnight when she pronounced him dead. Cabrillo carefully reached up and closed Ackerman’s eyes, then covered him with a blanket.

“You did the best you could,” he said to Huxley.

Then he left the sick bay and walked down the Oregon’s passageway.

Ackerman’s words were still ringing in his head.

Walking onto the stern of the ship, he found Hanley staring over a trio of bodies. Hanley was holding an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch computer picture in his hand.

“I enhanced the photograph with a computer to distort the face in order to account for the swelling,” he said as soon as Cabrillo walked closer.

Cabrillo took the photograph from Hanley, bent down next to the body, and held it to the face. He stared at the face of the corpse and then the photograph.

“Al-Khalifa,” he said slowly.

“He must have been weighed down and tossed overboard,” Hanley noted. “The only thing was that the killers didn’t know that the bottom of the ocean around here is littered with geothermal vents. The hot water caused the bodies to quickly bloat and overcome the weight. If it weren’t for that, we’d have never found them.”

“Have you ID’d the others?” Cabrillo asked.

“I haven’t found any records yet,” Hanley said, “plus there are more surfacing as we speak. Probably just Al-Khalifa’s minions.”

“Not minions,” Cabrillo said, “madmen.”

“Now the question is…” Hanley said.

“Who is crazy enough,” Cabrillo said, “to steal from other crazies.”