Текст книги "Sacred Stone"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 26 страниц)

22

LANGSTON OVERHOLT IVwas sitting in his office, bouncing a red rubber ball off a wooden paddle. The telephone receiver was cradled to his ear. The time was barely 8 A.M. but he’d already been at work for more than two hours.

“I left a pair of my engineers on board,” Cabrillo said to Overholt. “We’re claiming salvage rights.”

“Nice prize,” Overholt said.

“I’m sure we can use it somehow,” Cabrillo agreed.

“What’s your current location?” Overholt asked.

“We are north of Iceland heading east. We’re trying to track the bugs on the meteorite. Whoever killed Al-Khalifa and stole the meteorite must be aboard another ship.”

“You’re sure the body you recovered is Al-Khalifa?” Overholt asked.

“We’re faxing you fingerprints and digital photographs of the corpse,” Cabrillo said, “so your people can make a positive identification. But I’m ninety-nine percent sure.”

“After you woke me up this morning, I ordered some of my men to try to check out the ID on the passenger aboard the Eurocopter. We got nothing. I’m sending a team to Greenland to recover the bodies, then hopefully we’ll know more.”

“Sorry about the midnight call, but I thought you should receive the news as soon as possible.”

“No problem, I probably got more sleep than you.”

“I managed to grab a few hours once we left the Akbar,” Cabrillo admitted.

“What’s your gut feeling, old friend?” Overholt asked. “If Al-Khalifa is dead, then the threat of the dirty bomb seems diminished. The meteorite is radioactive, but without a catalyst the danger is a lot less.”

“True,” Cabrillo said slowly, “but the missing Ukrainian nuclear bomb is still out there somewhere, and we don’t know that several of Al-Khalifa’s own people didn’t kill him and will now try to mount the mission themselves.”

“That would explain a lot,” Overholt said, “like how the killers accessed the Akbarso easily.”

“If it wasn’t some of Al-Khalifa’s own people, then we have another group to contend with. If that’s the case, we should be wary. Whoever made the assault on the Akbarwere highly trained and as deadly as vipers.”

“Another terrorist group?”

“I doubt it,” Cabrillo said. “The operation had none of the earmarks of religious fanatics. It was more like a military operation. No emotion or fuss—just a surgical and flawless elimination of the opposition.”

“I’ll dig around,” Overholt said, “and see what I can find out.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Good thing you managed to bug the meteorite,” Overholt added.

“The only card up our sleeve,” Cabrillo agreed.

“Anything else?”

“Just before he died, the archaeologist started talking about the Ghost,” Cabrillo said, “as if he were a man and not a disembodied apparition.”

“I’m on it,” Overholt said.

“This is turning into an episode of Scooby-Doo,” Cabrillo said. “Find out who the Ghost is and we solve the caper.”

“I don’t seem to remember a Scooby-Dooepisode dealing with nuclear weapons,” Overholt said.

“Update it for the twenty-first century,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting, “it’s a much more dangerous world now.”

THE FREE ENTERPRISEwas steaming through the frigid ocean water on a course toward the Faeroe Islands. The team was starting to relax—after they delivered the meteorite they’d have a break for a while. Once they repositioned the ship to Calais, they would simply wait for a call if needed. The mood aboard the ship was light.

They had no idea a greyhound of the sea disguised as an old cargo ship was following.

Nor did they know that both the Corporation and the might of the U.S. government would soon be aligned against them. They were in ignorant bliss.

“IT’S IMPORTANT,” TD Dwyer explained to the receptionist.

“How important?” the receptionist asked. “He’s preparing for a White House meeting.”

“Very important,” Dwyer said.

The receptionist nodded and buzzed Overholt. “There’s a Thomas Dwyer here from Theoretical Applications. He claims that he needs to see you immediately.”

“Send him in,” Overholt said.

The receptionist rose and walked over to Overholt’s door and opened it. Overholt was sitting behind his desk. Closing a file, he swiveled around and slid the file into a slot in a safe behind his desk.

“Okay,” he said, “come in now.”

Dwyer slid past the receptionist and she closed the door behind him.

“I’m TD Dwyer,” he said. “I’m the scientist tasked with the analysis of the meteorite.”

Overholt walked from behind his desk and shook Dwyer’s hand, then motioned him over to a pair of chairs around a seating pit. Once they were both seated, he spoke.

“What have you got?”

Dwyer was less than five minutes into his dissertation when Overholt stopped him.

He walked over to his desk and spoke into the intercom. “Julie, we need to schedule Mr. Dwyer to accompany me to the meeting at the White House.”

“Could you ask him his clearance, sir?” Julie asked.

“One-A critical,” Dwyer answered.

“Then we can go in the front,” Overholt said to Julie, “as planned.”

“I’ll call over, sir.”

Overholt walked back to the chair and sat down. “When it’s our turn I want you to deliver your findings without hyperbole. Just lay out the facts as best you know. If you are asked for an opinion—and you probably will be—give it, but qualify it as such.”

“Yes, sir,” Dwyer said.

“Good,” Overholt said. “Now, just between us, lay out the rest of it, harebrained theories and all.”

“The gist of the theory is this: There is a possibility that if the molecular structure of the meteorite is pierced, a virus could be released that might have dire consequences.”

“Worst case?”

“The end of all organic life on earth.”

“Well,” Overholt said, “I can safely state you’ve ruined my morning.”

IN THE OREGON’S control room, Eric Stone was carefully watching a monitor. He would pin down the location of the meteorite, then it would seem to move. Using all the various locations, Stone was trying to vector in on the object. Then he punched in more commands on the computer keyboard and glanced at a different screen. Stone was using space the Corporation rented on a commercial satellite.

The image filled the monitor but the sea was hidden by a heavy cloud cover.

“Boss,” he said to Cabrillo, “we need a KH-30 shot. The clouds are too thick.”

The KH-30 was the Defense Department’s latest supersecret satellite. It could peer through clouds, even into the water itself. Stone had been unable to hack into the system despite repeated efforts.

“I’ll ask Overholt the next time we talk,” Cabrillo said. “Maybe he can railroad the National Reconnaissance Office into giving him time. Good try, Stone.”

Hanley was staring at the track map on another monitor. The Oregonwas flying through the water but the other vessel had a good head start. “We can overtake them before Scotland anyway, if they stay at the current speed.”

Cabrillo glanced at the monitor. “It looks to me like they’re on a course for the Faeroes.”

“If that’s the case,” Hanley said, “they’ll reach port before we can overtake them.”

Cabrillo nodded and considered this. “What’s the location of our jets?”

Hanley pulled a world map up on the screen. “Dulles, Dubai, Cape Town and Paris.”

“Which aircraft is in Paris?”

“Challenger 604,” Hanley answered.

“Direct it to Aberdeen, Scotland,” Cabrillo said. “The runway at the airport in the Faeroe Islands is not long enough to handle it, and Aberdeen is the next closest city. Have it fueled and ready if we need to use her.”

Hanley nodded and walked over to a computer to enter the instructions. The door to the control room opened and Michael Halpert entered. He was holding a manila folder in his hands. He walked to the coffee machine, poured a cup and then approached Cabrillo.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said wearily, “I’ve exhausted the database. There are no terrorists or other criminal elements that go by the nickname the Ghost.”

“Did you find anything?”

“One Hollywood actor who fashions himself a proponent of the dark side, an author who does vampire books, an industrialist, and 4,382 various e-mail identities.”

“The actor and the author are definitely out,” Cabrillo said. “All the ones I’ve met are too stupid to plan lunch, much less an assault on a terrorist ship. Who is the industrialist?”

“One Halifax Hickman,” Halpert said, reading from the file, “an ultrarich Howard Hughes type with a vast variety of business interests.”

“Find out everything you can about him,” Cabrillo ordered. “I want to know everything from the color of his underwear on through.”

“Will do,” Halpert said as he walked out of the control room again.

It would be twelve hours before Halpert exited his office.

And when he did, the Corporation would know a lot more than it did right now.

IF TD DWYER claimed he was not nervous he’d be lying.

The group that was assembled around the conference table were the blue-ribbon winners in the nation’s power struggle. More than a few of them appeared nightly on the news programs, and most were recognizable to anyone not living in a cave.

The people assembled were cabinet officials, the secretary of state, the president and his advisors, and a scattering of four-star generals and intelligence leaders. When it was Overholt’s turn to address the group, he gave a quick overview of the situation and then introduced Dwyer for questions.

The first question came from the heaviest of hitters.

“Has this possibility ever been verified in a laboratory?” the president asked.

“It is believed isotopes of helium were detected in buckyballs that were inside fragments recovered at the meteor crater in northern Arizona as well as at an underwater site near Cancun, Mexico. However, the studies were conducted by university laboratories and the results were not completely conclusive.”

“So this is all a theory,” the secretary of state said, “not hard science.”

“Mr. Secretary,” Dwyer said, “the entire field is a new one. It has only been around since 1996, when the Nobel Prize in chemistry was awarded to three men credited with discovering buckyballs. Since then, with funding cutbacks and such, the field has been mainly explored by corporations with an eye toward commercial applications.”

“Is there a way to test this theory?” the secretary of state followed up.

“We could recover some debris and puncture the atoms in a controlled setting,” Dwyer said, “but there is no guarantee that we would recover a sample with the virus intact. Some parts might contain it, some might not.”

The president spoke. “Mr. Overholt, why did you dispatch contractors to Greenland and not some of our own agents?”

“Firstly,” Overholt said, “at that time I believed we were dealing with a relatively harmless object and I had no way of knowing Echelon had been compromised. The information of the increased threat only came to me from Mr. Dwyer today. Secondly, we planned to confiscate the object, and I wanted to shield your administration from any negative blowback.”

“I understand,” the president said. “Who did we hire for the job?”

“The Corporation,” Overholt said.

“They were in charge of the Dalai Lama’s return to Tibet, were they not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I figured they’d all be retired by now,” the president said. “They hit a financial home run with that operation. Anyway, I have no doubt as to their skill—if I had been you, I’d have done the same thing.”

“Thank you, sir,” Overholt said.

The air force chief of staff spoke next. “So the situation is that we have an iridium orb loose at the same time that there is a Ukrainian nuclear weapon missing. If one meets the other, we’ll have a hell of a problem.”

The president nodded. That was the situation in a nutshell. He paused.

“Here’s what I want done,” he said finally. “Mr. Dwyer should recover some of these extraterrestrial buckyballs and start experimenting. If there’s a chance that an extraterrestrial virus can be unleashed, we need to know about it. Secondly, I want the military and intelligence unified in an effort to locate this meteorite. Thirdly, I want Mr. Overholt to continue to work with the Corporation—they’ve been on this since the onset, so I don’t want them pulled. I’ll budget whatever funds we need for their fees. Fourthly, I want this kept quiet—if I read about this tomorrow in the New York Times,whoever leaked it will be fired. Last is the most obvious: We need both the Ukrainian nuke and the meteorite recovered as quickly as possible so we don’t start the New Year with a crisis.” He paused and looked around the table. “Okay, everyone, you know what you’re supposed to do. Just get the job done and let’s wrap this up.”

The room started to empty but the president motioned for Overholt and Dwyer to remain. Once the marine guard had everyone herded out, he shut the door behind him and stood guard outside.

“TD, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Dwyer said.

“Give me the sour milk.”

Dwyer glanced at Overholt, who nodded.

“If there isa virus in the molecules that comprise the meteorite,” Dwyer said slowly, “a nuclear detonation might be the least of our problems.”

“Get me Cabrillo on the telephone,” the president said to Overholt.

23

ON BOARD THE Oregonthe conference room was full.

“At three hundred fifty miles out we can launch the Robinson,” Cabrillo said. “If we fly at a hundred miles an hour against the headwind, we should be able to arrive in the Faeroe Islands around the same time as our mystery ship.”

“The problem is,” Hanley said, “with only you and Adams on site, there’s no way you can storm the vessel. It would be suicide.”

“These guys,” Seng added, “are badasses.”

Just then the door to the conference room opened and Gunther Reinholt, the Oregon’s aging propulsion engineer, poked his head inside.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “there’s a call you need to take.”

Cabrillo nodded and rose from the head of the table, then followed Reinholt into the hall. “Who’s calling?” he asked.

“The president, sir,” Reinholt said, leading Cabrillo toward the control room.

Cabrillo said nothing—there was really nothing to say. Reaching the control room, he opened the door, made his way over to the secure telephone and lifted the receiver.

“This is Juan Cabrillo.”

“Please hold for the President of the United States,” the operator said.

A second or two later a voice with a twang came on the line. “Mr. Cabrillo,” he said, “good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon to you, sir,” Cabrillo answered.

“I have Mr. Overholt here with me—he’s already briefed me. Could you explain the current situation?”

Cabrillo gave the president a quick recap.

“I could scramble some planes out of England and take out the ship with a Harpoon missile,” the president said when Cabrillo had finished, “but then the nuke is still out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” Cabrillo agreed.

“We can’t land troop transports at the Faeroe airport,” the president continued. “I checked and the airport is too small. That means our only shot is to helicopter in a team, and my estimates are that to prepare and deploy a force up there would take six hours.”

“We estimate we have three and a half to four hours tops, sir,” Cabrillo said.

“I checked with the navy,” the president said. “They have nothing in the area.”

“Mr. President,” Cabrillo said, “we have a locator placed on the meteorite. Until it is combined with the nuclear device, it is of limited threat. If you give us permission, we believe we can follow the meteorite to the location where it is to be mated with the nuke and recover both at the same time.”

“That’s a risky strategy,” the president said.

The president turned to Overholt.

“Juan,” Overholt said, “what are the chances your team can pull this off?”

“Good,” Cabrillo said quickly, “but there is a wild card.”

“What’s the wild card?” the president asked.

“We don’t know for sure who we’re up against. If the people that have the meteorite are a faction of the Hammadi Group, I think we can take them.”

The president paused before speaking. “Okay,” he said at last, “I say we go ahead as planned.”

“Very good, sir,” Cabrillo said.

“Now,” the president said, “we have uncovered an entirely separate problem pertaining to the meteorite. I have a scientist here who will explain.”

For the next few minutes, Dwyer explained his theory.

Cabrillo felt a cold chill rising on his back. Armageddon was close at hand.

“That raises the stakes, Mr. President,” Cabrillo offered, “but the other side must be unaware of the possibility of a released virus. We just learned it was possible ourselves. The fact is that they would be ensuring their own destruction. The only scenario that makes sense is using the meteorite to construct a dirty bomb.”

“That’s all true,” the president agreed, “and we’ve been hard-pressed to come up with a scenario where the molecules would be penetrated. They need to break the meteorite down somehow for that to happen. Still, the threat exists—and the consequences could be dire and permanent.”

“If the Corporation had been hired to launch this operation,” Overholt asked, “how would you go about it?”

“You mean if an evil twin to the Corporation existed and we wanted to kill as many people as possible?” Cabrillo asked. “We would want to introduce the radioactivity in the iridium to the largest possible population.”

“So you’d need a delivery system of some sort?” the president asked.

“Correct, Mr. President,” Cabrillo said.

“Then if we have the British seal off their airspace, the threat of aerial dispersal is eliminated,” the president noted. “Then we just have the bomb to deal with.”

“We will need increased security at the underground stations and public areas as well,” Cabrillo added, “in case their plan is to dust public areas with radioactive dust. Maybe they have somehow dismantled the nuke and ground up the core, and their plan is to combine it with the iridium in a powdered form to poison the populace.”

“Then the British will need to watch their mail and package delivery apparatus as well,” the president added. “What else?”

The four men were silent as they thought.

“Let’s pray you can recover the meteorite and the bomb together,” the president said, “and protect England from ruin. Any other outcome is too horrible to consider.”

The call ended, and Cabrillo started walking back to the conference room.

What he had no way of knowing was that while Great Britain was a target for one operation, the other target was three time zones away to the east.

Cabrillo opened the door and entered the conference room.

“I just got off the telephone with the president,” Cabrillo said as he made his way to the head of the table. “We have the resources of the United States government behind us.”

The group waited for Cabrillo to continue.

“There’s one other thing,” he continued. “A CIA scientist has advanced a theory that there might be traces of gases from deep space inside the molecules of the meteorite. These gases may have suspended in them a virus or pathogen that could prove deadly. No matter what, once we recover the meteorite it’s not to be disturbed.”

Julia Huxley spoke. As medical officer, she was tasked with the crew’s safety. “What about exposure to the exterior of the meteorite?” she asked. “You were right next to the orb.”

“The scientist said that if a virus was on the exterior it would have burned up upon entering the atmosphere. The problem could arise if the meteorite was drilled, for example. If the molecules have arranged themselves in a certain manner, they may have produced pockets larger than molecule size that contain the gases.”

“How large might these pockets be?” Huxley asked.

“It’s only a theory,” Cabrillo said, “but the meteorite could be a hollow sphere much like a chocolate Easter egg. Or, there might be clusters of gas like naturally occurring geodes have, where there are pockets of crystal in various sizes. No one knows until it is recovered and studied.”

“Any idea as to the type of virus?” Huxley asked. “Maybe I can prepare a serum.”

“None,” Cabrillo said carefully, “but if it’s from space and it’s released on Earth, it couldn’t be good.”

The room was so quiet you could hear a buzzing fly.

Cabrillo stared at Hanley.

“Adams is almost ready to leave,” Hanley said, “and our Challenger 604 will be arriving in Aberdeen shortly.”

“Where’s Truitt?”

Richard “Dick” Truitt was the Corporation’s vice president of operations.

“He was aboard the emir’s plane,” Hanley said. “He returned the emir safely to Qatar. I ordered our Gulfstream in Dubai to fly to Qatar and pick him up. They should have already left and are probably somewhere over Africa.”

“Send him to London,” Cabrillo ordered. “Keep him and the Gulfstream on standby.”

Hanley nodded.

“I want all of you to continue planning the assault of our mystery ship,” Cabrillo said. “If all goes according to plan, we can wrap this up in the next twelve hours. As usual, Hanley is in charge while I’m gone.”

The crew nodded and returned to planning as Cabrillo left the room and headed down the passageway to Halpert’s office and knocked.

“Come in,” Halpert said.

Cabrillo opened the door and entered. “What have you found out?”

“I’m still doing research,” Halpert said. “I’m running the various corporations he controls right now.”

“Make sure you cover his personal life and make up a psych profile.”

“I’ll do it, sir,” Halpert said, “but as of now, this guy seems to be a true-blue American. He has a DOD clearance, he’s friends with a couple of senators and he was even invited to the president’s ranch once.”

“So was the North Korean president,” Cabrillo noted.

“You have a point,” Halpert said, “but be assured that if this guy has one bad wrinkle, I’ll find it.”

“I’m leaving the ship. Report your findings to Hanley.”

“Yes, sir.”

CABRILLO WALKED DOWN the passageway and up the stairs toward the flight deck.

George Adams was sitting in the pilot’s seat of the Robinson and dressed in a clean khaki-colored flight suit. He had yet to start the engine, and the cockpit was cold. He rubbed his flight gloves together and finished writing in the log attached to a clipboard.

Flicking on the main battery power switch to check status, he looked up as Cabrillo approached and opened the passenger door. Cabrillo took a bag containing weapons, extra clothing, and electronics and another with food and drinks and placed them in the rear. Once these were safely stowed he looked over at Adams.

“You need me to do anything, George?” he asked.

“No, Chief,” Adams said, “everything’s already taken care of. I have a weather report, a flight plan, and the waypoints are logged into the GPS. If you want to climb in and strap on a seat belt, I’ll get this show on the road.”

Over the years that Adams had worked for the Corporation, Cabrillo had never ceased to be amazed by the helicopter pilot’s efficiency. Adams never complained and never got excited. Cabrillo had flown through some rough conditions with the man, but other than some glib casual comments, Adams seemed unflustered and without fear.

“Sometimes I wish I could clone you, George,” Cabrillo said as he climbed in and fastened the seat belt.

“Why, boss,” Adams said, glancing up from the instruments, “then I’d only have half as much fun.”

Reaching down, Adams twisted the key and the piston engine turned over and settled into an idle. Adams watched the gauges until the engine reached operating temperatures, then radioed the pilothouse.

“Are we into the wind?”

“Affirmative,” the reply came.

Then with a smooth motion he raised the collective and the helicopter lifted from the deck. The Oregoncontinued steaming until the helicopter was clear. Then Adams accelerated and passed alongside the ship. A couple of minutes later the Oregonwas fading behind them in the distance. Now only clouds and the black sea filled the windshield.

“THAT’S WHAT WE have so far, Mr. Prime Minister,” the president said.

“I’ll raise the alert status,” the prime minister replied, “and release a cover story to the press that the reason is that we believe a shipment of Ricin poison is loose. That way the terrorists continue with their plans.”

“Hopefully we can wrap this up soon,” the president said.

“I’ll alert MI5 and MI6 to coordinate efforts with your people. However, once the meteorite reaches British soil, we’re going to need to take over.”

“I understand,” the president said.

“Then good luck,” the prime minister said.

“Good luck to you.”

TRUITT STARED AT the side window of the Gulfstream as it streaked across the sky at over five hundred miles an hour. Far below, the coast of Spain sat glowing in the sunlight. Rising from his seat, he walked forward and knocked on the cockpit door.

“Come on in,” Chuck “Tiny” Gunderson said.

Truitt opened the door. Gunderson was piloting and Tracy Pilston was in the copilot’s seat. “How’s it going up here?” he asked.

“Here’s the score,” Pilston said. “Tiny has eaten a turkey on rye, an entire bag of M&M’s and half a can of smoked almonds. I’d keep my hands away from his mouth if I were you.”

“There are two things that make me hungry,” Gunderson offered. “Flying is one of them, and you know the other one.”

“Salmon fishing?” Truitt offered.

“That too,” Gunderson agreed.

“Dirt biking?” Pilston said.

“That too,” Gunderson agreed.

“It’s probably easier to find out what doesn’t make you hungry,” Truitt said.

“Sleeping,” Gunderson said, slumping over and faking a nap.

“What did you need, Mr. Truitt?” Pilston asked as Gunderson continued to pretend he was asleep. The Gulfstream flew along untended.

“I was just curious if we were landing at Gatwick or Heathrow.”

“Our last orders were Heathrow,” Pilston said.

“Thanks,” Truitt said as he turned to leave.

“Can you do me a favor?” Pilston asked.

“Sure,” Truitt said, turning around.

“Order Tiny to let me fly, he always hogs the controls.”

Gunderson’s mouth barely opened as he spoke. “It’s on autopilot.”

“Play nice, kids,” Truitt said, walking away.

“I’ll give you a Snickers if you let me fly,” Pilston offered.

“Shoot, woman,” Gunderson said, “why didn’t you say so?”