Текст книги "Sandstorm"

Автор книги: James Rollins

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

It struck.

Painter, half around the corner, caught a glancing shove to the shoulder. He was ripped away, tossed bodily across the room, lifted on wings of fire. Others had taken the force fully and were driven straight back. In a tangle, they hit the far wall. Painter kept his eyes squeezed shut. His lungs seared with the one breath he had taken.

Then it ended.

The heat vanished.

Painter gained his feet. “Shelter,” he squeaked out, waving in vain.

The quake came next.

No warning.

Except for an earsplitting clap, deafening, as if the Earth were being cracked in half. Then the palace jumped several feet up, then down again, throwing them all flat.

The rattling worsened. The tower shook, jolted to one side, then the other. Glass shattered. An upper story of the tower went crashing down. Pillars broke and toppled, smashing into city or lake.

All the while, Painter kept flat.

A loud splintery popexploded by his ear. He turned his head and saw the entire balcony beyond the archway shear and tilt away. A small limb waved.

It was Cassandra. She had not been blown through the doorway like the rest of them, but knocked against the palace’s outer wall.

She fell with the balcony. In her hand, she still held the detonator.

Painter scrambled toward her.

Reaching the edge, he searched below. He spotted Cassandra sprawled in the tumble of broken glass. Her fall had not been far. She lay on her back, clutching the detonator to her chest.

“I still have it!” she hollered hoarsely to him, but he didn’t know if it was in threat or reassurance.

She gained her feet.

“Hang on,” he said. “I’m coming down.”

“Don’t-”

A bolt of charge stabbed out as she stood, striking at her toes. The glass melted underfoot. She dropped into the pool, thigh-deep before the glass solidified under her.

She didn’t scream, though her entire body wrenched with pain. Her cloak caught on fire. She still held the detonator, in a fist, hugged to her neck. A gasp finally escaped her.

“Painter…!”

He spotted a patch of sand in the courtyard below. He leaped and landed hard, wrong, ankle turning, skidding. It was nothing. He stood and kicked sand, a meager path to reach her side.

He dropped next to her, knees in sand. He could smell her flesh burning.

“Cassandra…ohmygod.”

She held out the transmitter, every line on her face agonized. “I can’t hold. Squeeze…”

He grabbed her fist, covering it with his own.

She relaxed her own grip, trusting him to keep her finger pressed now. She fell against him, her pants smoldering. Blood poured where charred skin met glass, too red, arterial.

“Why?” he asked.

She kept her eyes closed, only shook her head. “…owe you.”

“What?”

She opened her eyes, met his. Her lips moved, a whisper. “I wish you could’ve saved me.”

He knew she didn’t mean a moment ago…but back when they were partners. Her eyes closed. Her head fell to his shoulder.

He held her.

Then she was gone.

Safia awoke in Omaha’s arms. She smelled the sweat on his neck, felt the tremble in his arms. He clutched tightly to her. He was crouched down, balanced on the balls of his feet, cradling her in his lap.

How was Omaha here? Where was here?

Memory snapped back.

The sphere…the lake…

She struggled to get free. Her movement startled Omaha. He tipped, caught himself with a hand, then yanked his arm back.

“Saff, stay still.”

“What happened?”

His face was strained. “Nothing much. But let’s see if you saved Arabia.” He hauled her up, still carrying her, and ducked out the door.

Safia recognized the place. Where the rolling sphere had jammed. They both looked to the lake. Its surface still swirled, eddying. The skies overhead blazed and crackled.

Safia felt her heart sink. “Nothing’s changed.”

“Hon, you slept through a whirlwind and a major quake.”

As if on cue, another aftershock rattled around them. Omaha took a step back, but it ended. He returned to studying the lake. “Look at the shoreline.”

She turned her head. The water’s edge had receded about twenty yards, leaving a bathtub ring around the lake. “The water level’s dropping.”

He hugged her tighter. “You did it! The lake must be draining into one of those subterranean cisterns Coral was yammering about.”

Safia stared back up at the static storm on the roof. It, too, was slowly subsiding, grounding out. She glanced across the spread of the darkening city, both upper and lower. So much destruction. But there was hope.

“No bolts,” she said. “I think the firestorm is over.”

“I’m not taking any chances. C’mon.” He hiked her higher in his arms and marched up the slope toward the palace.

She didn’t protest, but she quickly noted Omaha wincing with every step.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, arms hugged around his neck.

“Nothing. Just some sand in my shoes.”

Painter saw them approach.

Safia was riding piggyback on Omaha.

Painter called to them as they reached the courtyard. “Omaha, the electrical discharging is over,” he said. “You can put Safia down.”

Omaha marched past him. “Only over the threshold.”

He never made it. Shahra and Rahim all gathered around the pair in the courtyard, congratulating and thanking. Danny hugged his brother. He must have said something about Cassandra because Omaha glanced to the body.

Painter had covered it with a cloak. He had already deactivated the detonator and switched off the transceiver. Safia was safe.

He studied the group. Besides plenty of bruises, scrapes, and burns, they had all weathered the firestorm fine.

Coral straightened. She held one of the launchers and placed a belt buckle against its side. It stuck. She caught him staring. “Magnetized,” she said, tossing it aside. “Some type of magnetic pulse. Intriguing.”

Before he could respond, another aftershock rocked the place, strong enough to shatter away another pillar, weakened by the original quake. It fell across the city with a resounding crash.

That sobered everyone up to the dangers still here.

They were not safe.

To emphasize this fact, a deep rumble rose from below, trembling the glass underfoot. A low sound accompanied it, a subway train passing underground.

No one moved. Everyone held their breath.

Then it came.

A whooshing geyser erupted from the lake, fountaining upward, three stories high, as thick around as a two-hundred-year-old redwood.

Prior to this moment, the lake had drained to a small pool, a quarter of its original size. Monstrous cracks skittered along its basin, like the inside of a broken eggshell.

Now water spewed back out again.

They all gaped.

“The aftershocks must have ruptured into the original Earth-generated springs,” Danny said. “One of the global aquifers.”

The lake quickly began to refill.

“This place is going to flood,” Painter said. “We need to get out of here.”

“From fire to water,” Omaha grumbled. “This just gets better and better.”

Safia helped gather the children. They hurriedly fled from the palace. The younger Shahra men helped the older Rahim women.

By the time they reached the foot of the stairs, the lake had already climbed over its original banks, drenching into the lower city. And still the geyser continued to spray.

Flashlights bobbling, the strongest men pushed ahead. Boulders and tumbled piles of rocks blocked the passage in places. They hauled and burrowed a path through them.

The rest of the group waited, following as best they could, climbing as quickly as possible, crawling over obstructions, the stronger helping the weaker.

Then a shout from above. A cry of joy. “ Hur-ree-ya!”

It was a cheer Safia was relieved to hear.

Freedom!

The group fled up the stairs. Painter waited at the top. He helped pull her through and out. He pointed an arm and reached to Kara behind her.

Safia barely recognized the mesa now. It was a tumbled pile of rubble. She glanced around. The winds blew hard, but the storm was gone, its energy sucked and damped into the firestorm below. Overhead a full moon shone, casting the world in silver.

Captain al-Haffi waved a flashlight at her, motioning to a path down through the jumble, making room for the others. The exodus continued off the mount.

The group marched from the rocks and into the sands. It was uphill. The prior whirlpool in the sand had worn a declivity miles across. They passed the charred husks of the tractor and trucks. The landscape was scribed with swatches of molten sand, still steaming in the night air.

Painter darted away to the overturned tractor. He climbed inside, disappeared for a bit, then came back out. He carried a laptop in his hand. It looked broken, the case scorched.

Safia raised an eyebrow at his salvaging, but he never explained.

They continued into the desert. Behind them, water now fountained from the ruins of the mesa. The declivity behind slowly filled with water.

Safia walked with Omaha, his hand in hers. People spoke in low whispers. Safia spotted Painter, hiking alone.

“Give me a second,” Safia said, squeezing Omaha’s hand and letting go.

She crossed over to Painter, matching his stride. He glanced at her, eyes questioning, surprised.

“Painter, I…I wanted to thank you.”

He smiled, a soft shift of his lips. “You owe me no thanks. It’s my job.”

She strode with him, knowing he was concealing a well of deeper emotion. It brimmed in his eyes, the way he seemed unable to meet hers.

She glanced at Omaha, then back at Painter. “I…we…”

He sighed. “Safia, I get it.”

“But-”

He faced her, his blue eyes raw but certain. “I get it. I do.” He nodded back to Omaha. “And he’s a good man.”

She had a thousand things she wanted to say.

“Go,” he murmured with that soft, pained smile.

With no words that could truly comfort, she drifted back to Omaha.

“What was that all about?” he asked, attempting to sound casual, but failing miserably.

She took his hand again. “Saying good-bye…”

The group climbed to the crest of the sandy declivity. A full lake now grew behind them, the crumbled mesa almost flooded over.

“Do we need to worry about all that water having antimatter in it?” Danny asked as they paused at the top of the crest.

Coral shook her head. “The antimatter-buckyball complexes are heavier than ordinary water. As the lake drained into the massive spring here, the buckyballs should have sunk away. Over time, they’ll dilute through the vast subterranean aquifer system and slowly annihilate away. No harm done.”

“So it’s all gone,” Omaha said.

“Like our powers,” Lu’lu added, standing between Safia and Kara.

“What do you mean?” Safia asked, startled.

“The blessings are gone.” No grief, only simple acceptance.

“Are you sure?”

Lu’lu nodded. “It has happened before. To others. As I told you. It is a fragile gift, easily damaged. Something happened during the quake. I felt it. A rush of wind through my body.”

Nods from the other Rahim.

Safia had been unconscious at the time.

“The magnetic pulse,” Coral said, overhearing them. “Such an intense force would have the ability to destabilize the buckyballs, collapse them.” Coral nodded to Lu’lu. “When one of the Rahim loses their gifts, does it ever come back?”

The hodjashook her head.

“Interesting,” Coral said. “For the mitochondria to propagate buckyballs in cells, it must need a few buckyballs as patterns, seeds, like those found in the original fertilized egg. But wipe them all out, and the mitochondria alone can’t generate them anew.”

“So the powers are truly gone,” Safia said, dismayed. She looked at her palms, remembering the warmth and peace. Gone…

The hodjatook her hand and squeezed. Safia sensed the long stretch of time from the scared little girl lost in the desert, seeking shelter among the stones, to the woman standing here now.

No, maybe the magic wasn’t completely gone.

The warmth and peace she had experienced before had nothing to do with gifts or blessings. It was this human touch. The warmth of family, the peace of self and certainty. That was blessing enough for anyone.

The hodjatouched the ruby teardrop by her left eye. She spoke softly. “We Rahim call this Sorrow. We wear it to represent the last tear shed by the queen as she left Ubar, shed for the dead, for herself, for those who would follow and carry her burden.” Lu’lu dropped her finger. “We rename it this night, under the moon, simply Farah.”

Safia translated. “Joy…”

A nod. “The first tear shed in happiness for our new life. Our burden is finally lifted. We can leave the shadows and walk again in full sunlight. Our time of hiding is over.”

A trace of dismay must have persisted in Safia’s expression.

The hodjareached and gently turned Safia around. “Remember, child, life is not a straight line. It cycles. The desert takes, but it gives back.” She freed her hand and motioned to the new lake swelling behind them. “Ubar is gone, but Edenhas returned.”

Safia gazed across the moonlit waters.

She pictured the Arabia lost to the past, before Ubar, before the meteor strike, a land of vast savannahs, verdant forests, meandering rivers, and plentiful life. She watched the flow of water across the parched sands of her home, the past and present overlapping.

Could it be possible?

The Garden of Eden…reborn.

From behind, Omaha settled against her, arms reaching around.

“Welcome home,” he whispered in her ear.

Epilogue

APRIL 8, 2:45 P.M.

DARPA HEADQUARTERS

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

PAINTERCROWEstood outside the office doors. He watched the custodian unscrew the nameplate. It had been there since the inception of Sigma Force. Mixed feelings warred in him: pride and satisfaction certainly, but also anger and a little shame. He had not wanted to gain this position under these awful circumstances.

The nameplate fell off the door.

DIRECTOR SEAN MCKNIGHT.

The former leader of Sigma.

It was tossed in the garbage.

The custodian grabbed the new black-and-silver plate from the secretary’s desk. He pressed it to the door and used an electric screwdriver to affix it in place. He stepped back.

“How’s that?” the man asked, tipping back his cap.

He nodded, staring at the plate.

DIRECTOR PAINTER CROWE.

The leader of Sigma Force’s next generation.

He was due to be sworn in and take his oath in half an hour. How could he sit behind that desk?

But it was his duty. Presidential directive. After all that had happened in Oman, DARPA had been shaken from top to bottom. The leader of the Guild had been a member of their own organization. Painter had brought both his suspicions and proof out of Oman. The experts here were able to recover the data from the hard drive of Cassandra’s laptop. It left a trail confirming Painter’s claim.

The Minister was exposed.

His plan to corrupt Sigma stopped.

He unfortunately swallowed his own pistol before he could be taken into custody. It was surely a blow to the Guild, but they were like the mythic Hydra. Cut off one head, and another would eventually arise.

Painter would be ready.

A scuff of shoe drew his attention around. Painter smiled broadly, reaching out a hand. “What are you doing down here, sir?”

Sean McKnight took his hand. “Old habits die hard. I just wanted to make sure you’re settled in here.”

“Fine, sir.”

He nodded, clapped Painter on the shoulder. “I’m leaving Sigma in good hands.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Sean stepped forward, noted his old nameplate in the trash, and bent to retrieve it. He picked it up and tucked it inside his jacket.

Painter’s face burned with shame.

But Sean merely smiled and patted his jacket. “For old times’ sake.” He strode away. “I’ll see you at the swearing-in ceremony.”

They would both be taking their oaths today.

As Painter was filling Sean’s position, Sean would be filling the vacancy in the directorship left behind by Vice Admiral Tony “The Tiger” Rector.

The Minister.

The bastard was so vain as to use a code name derived from his own last name. Rector. Meaning a member of the clergy.

In Oman, Painter had almost pegged Sean as the traitor. But when Painter had heard Cassandra mention the Minister, he had realized his mistake. Two men sent him on this mission: Sean McKnight andAdmiral Tony Rector. Naturally, Sean would have passed Painter’s intelligence to Rector, his boss, but it was Rector who had leaked it to Cassandra.

The laptop’s data confirmed the connection.

Rector had been attempting to usurp Sigma for himself. Cassandra was his first mole. Even back at Foxwoods, she had been ordered to orchestrate and facilitate the passing of military secrets to the Chinese through Xin Zhang. The purpose was to embarrass Sigma’s leadership. This failure had been intended as a crowbar to pry Sean McKnight out of office so Rector could place someone loyal to the Guild in charge.

But now it was over.

He stared at the closed door. It was a new chapter of his life.

He thought back to the long road that had led him here. The letter was still in his jacket pocket. Standing now, he took it out. He fingered its sharp edges, ran a thumb over the oatmeal envelope. His name was neatly embossed on the front. He had received it last week. If he wasn’t brave enough to face this, he’d never get past the door here.

Standing still, he sliced open the seal and pulled out the contents. Translucent vellum, textured cotton card stock, hand-deckled edge. Nice.

A slip of paper fell out. He caught it and flipped it over.

Be there…

-Kara

With a slight shake of his head and a small smile, he opened the invitation and read through it. A June wedding. To be held on the banks of Lake Eden, the new inland freshwater lake of Oman. Drs. Omaha Dunn and Safia al-Maaz.

He sighed. It hadn’t hurt as much as he’d expected.

He thought about all the others who had brought him to this door. Coral was already on another assignment in India. Danny and Clay, the best of buddies, were on a dig together…in India. The choice of dig sites had to be Danny’s idea. The Shahra and Rahim had united their clans to much celebration in Oman. And a new Shabab Omanwas being built. Kara was overseeing the ship’s construction while financing the repairs to the British Museum. He had read in Peoplemagazine that she was involved with a young doctor, someone she met while in rehab.

He glanced back to Kara’s note. Be there…

Maybe he could.

But first he had to get through this door.

Painter strode up, grabbed the handle, took a deep breath, and pushed.

On to the next big adventure.

Author’s Note

As I’ve done previously, I thought I would share a few of the facts and fictions that composed this book. I hope that by doing so, I might interest a few folks in exploring some of the topics and places in more detail.

First, the whole concept of antimatter. Is it the stuff of science fiction? Not any longer. CERN Laboratories in Switzerland has in fact produced antimatter particles and has been able to hold them stable for short periods of time. NASA and the Fermi National Laboratories have also explored the development of antimatter engines, including the development of the electromagnetic Penning Traps for storing and transporting antimatter.

As to antimatter meteors, they have been postulated to exist in space, but their existence remains theoretical. The theory that the Tunguska explosion in Russia was due to a small antimatter meteor is one of many postulated explanations. However, the described effects-the unusual nature of the blast, the EM pulse, the mutations in flora and fauna-are factual.

Regarding subjects related to water: All the chemistries described in the book are based on facts, including the weird conformation of water into buckyballs. The topic of magmatic or Earth-generated water is also based on the work of geologist Stephen Reiss, among many others.

Moving to Arabia, the geology of the region is unique. Twenty thousand years ago, the deserts of Oman were indeed once verdant savannahs full of rivers, lakes, and streams. Wildlife was abundant, and Neolithic hunters roamed the lands. This desertification of the region has indeed been attributed to a natural condition called “orbital forcing” or “Milankovitch Forcing.” Basically it’s a “wobble” in the Earth’s rotation that occurs at periodic intervals.

Most of the archaeological and historical details of Oman are real, including the tomb of Nabi Imran in Salalah, the tomb of Ayoub (Job) in the mountains, and of course, the ruins of Ubar at Shisur. Photos of all these places will be linked on my Web site (www.jamesrollins.com) for the curious or armchair traveler. Also, to read more about the discovery of Ubar, I highly recommend The Road to Ubarby Nicolas Clapp.

On to some minor miscellaneous details. First, the reclusive Shahra tribespeople do exist in the Dhofar Mountains and claim heritage to the kings of Ubar. They still speak a dialect considered to be the oldest in Arabia. The Omani flagship, the Shabab Oman,is an actual ship (sorry for blowing it up). And speaking of blowing things up, the iron camel that exploded at the beginning of the novel still resides somewhere at the British Museum. Safe and sound…at least for now.

Acknowledgments

IIMPOSEon too many people. First, Carolyn McCray must be acknowledged and worshiped for her ceaseless friendship and guidance from the first word to the last…and beyond. And Steve Prey for his arduous and detailed help with schematics, logistics, artwork, and sound input of a critical nature. And his wife, Judy Prey, for putting up with Steve and me and the many last-minute, desperate requests I’ve made on her time. The same above-and-beyond efforts were faced, accepted, and exceeded by Penny Hill (with the help of Bernie and Kurt, of course). For help with details in the novel, I must thank Jason R. Mancini, senior researcher for the Mashantucket Pequot Museum. And for help with languages, Diane Daigle and David Evans. Additionally, the book would not be what it is without my chief advisers, who rake me over the coals on a regular basis, in no particular order: Chris Crowe, Michael Gallowglas, Lee Garrett, David Murray, Dennis Grayson, Dave Meek, Royale Adams, Jane O’Riva, Kathy Duarte, Steve Cooper, Susan Tunis, and Caroline Williams. For the map used here, I must acknowledge its source: The CIA World Factbook 2000Finally, the four people who continue to remain my most loyal supporters: my editor, Lyssa Keusch; my agents, Russ Galen and Danny Baror; and my publicist, Jim Davis. And as always, I must stress any and all errors of fact or detail fall squarely on my own shoulders.

About the Author

James Rollinsis the bestselling author of five previous novels: Subterranean, Excavation, Deep Fathom, Amazoniaand Ice HuntHe has a doctorate in veterinary medicine and his own practice in Sacramento, California. An amateur spelunker and a certified scuba enthusiast, he can often be found either underground or underwater.

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Books by James Rollins

Subterranean

Excavation

Deep Fathom

Amazonia

Ice Hunt

Sandstorm