Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  Campbell nodded as Cabrillo walked out.

  Surprisingly enough, the snowcat was in perfect shape. A 1970 Thiokol model 1202B-4 wide-track Spryte. Powered by a Ford 200-cubic-inch six-cylinder with a four-speed transmission, it was bodied like a pickup truck with a flatbed on the rear. A light bar was mounted on the roof, an extra fuel tank on the rear bed, and the treads looked almost new. Cabrillo opened the door. Inside was a metal hump between the seats where the strangely angled gearshift resided, as well as a pair of levers in front of the driver's seat that controlled the tanklike steering. Cabrillo knew that with a flick of the levers the Thiokol could spin on its treads in a circle. The dashboard was metal, with a cluster of gauges in front of the driver and heater vents down lower. Mounted behind the seat, hung on racks on each side of the rear window, was a large-caliber rifle. There were emergency flares, a tool kit with spares, and detailed waterproof maps.

  Everything was freshly painted, oiled and maintained.

  Cabrillo finished his inspection and walked back inside. He stopped just inside the door and knocked the snow off his boots, then walked back into the living room.

  "What's the range?" he asked Campbell.

  "With the extra fuel tank and some jerry cans, it'll get you to Mount Forel and back, with an extra hundred miles or so in case of trouble or snow slides," Campbell said. "I wouldn't hesitate to make a trip any­where in her—she's never let me down."

  Cabrillo walked over near a fuel-oil stove. "Ball's in your court."

  Campbell was silent. He stared at the bottle, looked up at the ceiling, then looked down at the floor and thought for a moment. At this pace, he had maybe one more summer. Then his body would start shutting down—or he'd make a drunken mistake in a land where mistakes are not forgiven. He was fifty-seven years old and he felt like he was a hundred. He had reached his end.

  "I'm done," Campbell said.

  "It's not that easy," Cabrillo said. "You have a tough battle ahead."

  "I'm ready to try," Campbell said.

  "We'll get you out of here and into detox in return for the snowcat. Do you have any living family?"

  "Two brothers and a sister in Colorado," Campbell admitted, "but I haven't spoken to them in years."

  "You have a choice," Cabrillo said, "either go home for treatment—or die here."

  For the first time in years, Campbell smiled. "I think I'll try home."

  "You've got to hold it together for the next few days," Cabrillo said. "First I need you to show me the route through the mountains here on the maps and help me prepare. Then I'm going to leave you with my spare satellite telephone so I can call you if I run into trouble. Do you think you'll be able to handle that?"

  "I won't be able to stop cold turkey," Campbell said honestly. "I'd shake myself to death or go into convulsions."

  "I don't want or expect you to," Cabrillo said. "You need medical care. I just want you sober enough to be able to answer the telephone and give me advice if any problems arise I can't handle."

  "That I can do."

  "Then hold on," Cabrillo said as he removed his satellite phone and dialed the Oregon, "and let me set it up."

  CAMPBELL SNIFFED AT the wind and stared to the north. The Thiokol was idling smoothly a few feet away. The flatbed was loaded with extra jerry cans of fuel and the boxes of supplies Cabrillo had retrieved from the airport. Cabrillo was placing other boxes with food and items he didn't want to freeze on top of and below the passenger seat. The door was open and the hot air from the heater was creating clouds of steam.

  "There's a storm coming," Campbell noted, "but I'd guess it won't be here until tomorrow afternoon or night at the earliest."

  "Good," Cabrillo said, finished now and standing upright. "You remember how to use the satellite telephone?"

  "I'm a drunk," Campbell said, "not an idiot."

  Cabrillo stared into the darkness. "How long did you figure the trip will take?"

  "You'll be there by morning," Campbell said, "if you follow the route I laid out."

  "I have a handheld GPS and I have the compass in the 'cat and the maps you marked. I think I'm set to navigate."

  "Whatever you do," Campbell said, "you follow that route. You're going to be skirting the ice cap a lot of the way, but then you'll need to go up on top. It's rough up there and constantly changing. If you get into trouble or overturn the 'cat, help will take a long time to reach you—maybe too long."

  Cabrillo nodded then took a step forward and shook hands with Campbell. "You take care of yourself," he said over the increasing roar of the wind, "and watch the booze until we can get you to a treatment facility."

  "I'm not going to let you down, Mr. Cabrillo," Campbell said, "and thanks for making the arrangements—for the first time in a long time I feel like there is light at the end of the tunnel. Hope, maybe."

  Cabrillo nodded and then climbed into the cab of the Thiokol. Once inside he closed the door and removed his parka. Revving up the engine, he let it settle back into an idle. Then he engaged the clutch, shifted the gear lever into first and slowly pulled away from the house. The treads of the Thiokol threw snow into the air as he passed.

  Campbell waited under the eave of the rear door until the lights from the snowcat faded into the darkness. Then he walked back inside and poured himself a carefully measured ounce of whiskey. He needed to calm the demons that were beginning to show their true colors.

  Cabrillo felt the lap belt tug at his waist as the Thiokol started down the hill toward the expanse of ice leading to the mainland. When the snowcat had leveled out and was crossing the last few feet of snow-covered dirt before the frozen fjord, he felt a tightening in his crotch. Beneath the ice only a few feet away was a thousand feet of thirty-two-degree water and then a rocky bottom.

  If the Thiokol hit a thin spot and he went in, he'd have only seconds to live.

  Banishing the thought, Cabrillo stepped on the gas.

  The tracks of the snowcat touched the edge of the ice then went out onto the frozen wasteland. The lights on the roof illuminated the blowing snow as the Thiokol headed across the ice. But the blowing wind made the snowflakes dance and their reflection was distorted, making distance ebb and flow.

  Cabrillo was lost in a world without time or dimension.

  A lesser man might have been scared.

  Chapter 12

  IN REYKJAVIK, MAX Hanley was hard at work aboard the Oregon. The Arab Peace Summit was winding down and once tomorrow's meetings concluded, the emir would board his 737 and his security concerns would pass to his staff.

  So far the operation had gone perfectly. The emir had been able to move freely about Iceland with an almost invisible security presence. The teams from the Corporation were masters at blending into the background. Today, after the meetings concluded, the emir had wanted to visit Blue Hole, a nearby natural hot springs pool that had been created when a new geothermal plant had been constructed. There, rich, mineral-laden water flowed among acres of volcanic rocks to form an outdoor oasis from the cold. Steam from the naturally heated waters swirled in the air, forming clouds like in a steam bath. People in the water appeared and disappeared like ghosts in a misty cemetery.

  Six of the Corporation team had been nearby in the water while the emir soaked.

  A few minutes ago, Hanley had received word that the emir was in the locker rooms dressing. Now, Hanley was coordinating the two separate convoys that would return the people back to the emir's hotel.

  "Did you trip the switch?" Hanley asked Seng over the satellite phone.

  "One in," he said, "one out. No one could see a thing."

  "That should throw off the opposition," Hanley said.

  "Slick as a baby's behind," Seng agreed.

  "Make sure you time the two caravans to arrive a few minutes apart," Hanley said, "and go in through the back doors." "

  "You got it," Seng said before disconnecting.

  "YOU HAVE ALL the arrangements made?" Hanley asked Medical Officer J
ulia Huxley as she walked into the control room.

  "The detox facility is in Estes Park, Colorado," Huxley said. "I hired an Icelandic nurse who speaks excellent English to accompany him on the flight to New York and then on to Denver. A van from the facility will pick him up in Denver. All he has to do is make the flight from Kulusuk to Reykjavik alone. I've alerted the pilot and had a few Librium pills dropped at the airport for the pilot to hand-carry to him. That should calm him and help fight convulsions until the nurse here can take over."

  "Good job," Hanley said. "We'll go ahead as soon as the chairman gives the okay."

  "On the second matter," she said, "the boss needs to be concerned about radiation exposure when he retrieves the meteorite. I have some potassium iodine on board that we can give him when we meet up again, but the farther away he keeps the object, the better."

  "His plan is to wrap it in plastic and an old blanket and carry it to the rear of the snowcat inside a metal toolbox."

  "That should be fine," Huxley said. "It's the possibility of inhaled dust that should concern him the most."

  "We estimate there will be no dust—in the photograph it looks like a giant ball bearing. Any dust should have burned off on reentry. So unless Cabrillo has prolonged, close contact with the orb, exposing him to the radiation, he should be okay."

  "That's the score," Huxley agreed.

  Huxley turned to leave but then stopped at the door. "Chief?" she said to Hanley.

  "Yes, Julia?"

  "I don't know if you've ever seen radiation exposure cases," she said quietly. "They aren't pretty. Tell the boss to keep the meteorite as far away from himself as possible."

  "I'll relay the message," Hanley said.

  Chapter 13

  ALEIMEIN AL-KHALIFA read the fax once more then slipped the sheets of paper into a plastic sleeve to protect the image. The cost to the Hammadi Group for this information had been the equivalent of one million British pounds in gold. The greed and avarice shown by Man continued to amaze Al-Khalifa—for the right price most men would sell out their country, their future livelihood, even their God. The insider at Echelon had been no different. A host of gambling debts and poor financial stewardship had placed him in a position to be exploited. A slow seduction and increasingly larger payments for his treason had put him firmly within the Hammadi Group's control.

  And now, after two years, the man had come through with a jackpot.

  The problem was that Al-Khalifa had his plate rather full right now. Turning to the other man in the cabin of the yacht, he spoke.

  "Allah blesses all that believe."

  Salmain Esky smiled and nodded. "It seems to be an answered prayer," he agreed, "though it comes at an already bountiful time."

  Al-Khalifa stared at him. Esky was small, a shade over five feet in height and as thin as a willow. A native of Yemen, he had dark, dusty skin, a receding chin line, and a mouthful of tiny pointed teeth stained yellow and brown. Esky was a follower, not particularly smart, but extremely loyal to the cause. All movements needed men like him. They were the pawns to be played. The fodder for the cannon.

  By contrast, Al-Khalifa was tall, handsome, and moved with a grace that generations of leadership had instilled in his soul. For hundreds of years his ancestors had ruled as tribal leaders on the dusty Arabian Peninsula. It had only been in the last twenty years, since Al-Khalifa's father had fallen from grace with the Qatari royal family, that his bloodline had been reduced to ordinary status. Al-Khalifa was planning to rectify that situation soon.

  Then he would follow through with his planned strike for Islam.

  "Allah has blessed us with the funds to do both," Al-Khalifa said, "and we shall."

  "So you want the captain to plot a course northeast to the site?" Esky asked.

  "Yes," Al-Khalifa said quietly. "I'll bring the passenger aboard later."

  FLAGGED IN BAHRAIN and registered as being owned by the Arab Investment and Trading Consortium, the three-hundred-and-three-foot-long Akbar was one of the largest privately owned yachts in the world. Few outsiders had ever been aboard the yacht, but those few had spoken of the plush salon, the large hot tubs on the rear deck, and the host of smaller boats, personal watercrafts, and helicopter that she carried.

  From the outside, the Akbar appeared to be a floating palace owned by someone ultrarich. Almost no one would guess that she housed a terrorist cell. Along with the leader, Al-Khalifa, and the follower, Esky—both now on shore—were six more men. Two were Kuwaitis, two were Saudis, and there was one Libyan and one Egyptian. All of the men were infused with fundamentalist Muslim rhetoric. And all were ready to die for their cause.

  "We're cleared to leave port," the captain said into a handheld radio.

  "Once you're free of the outer harbor, begin steaming at full speed," Al-Khalifa ordered from shore. "I'll rendezvous with you in an hour and a half."

  "Yes, sir," the captain answered.

  Al-Khalifa slid the small telephone back into his front pocket and then stared at the electrical panel in the basement of the hotel again. "Place the charges there," he said to Esky, pointing to the main trunk line. "After the alarm sounds and it goes dark, meet me at the lower stairwell as we planned."

  Esky nodded and began molding the C-6 explosive around the aluminum pipe. He was reaching into his pocket for the firing wires and triggers as Al-Khalifa walked away. Crossing through the underground parking garage, Al-Khalifa stopped, opened the rear of a van, looked in­side, and then closed it up and walked across the lot again.

  Opening the door to the emergency stairwell, he began climbing up flights of stairs.

  Once he'd reached the floor directly under the Qatari emir's suite of rooms, he used his card key to enter a room that had been rented by his shell company. Al-Khalifa glanced at the bed he had flipped up against the wall earlier that day. Then he examined the strange-looking red-painted machine sitting on the area of the floor where the bed had formerly resided. Up near the ceiling was a four-foot-diameter diamond-tipped circular saw blade that looked like a giant version of what a woodworker would use to bore a hole in the side of a birdhouse. The blade was attached to a stainless steel shaft powered by hydraulic rams. Below the shaft was a rectangular metal box that housed the diesel engine that was used to power the boring unit. Under the engine box was an axle and automotive-sized wheels that allowed the unit to be towed where it was needed. A portable hand-control panel with a twenty-foot cable allowed the machine to be remotely operated.

  When he lowered the blade, there were six feet of clearance between it and the ceiling. There was a square piece of plywood and a ladder placed alongside the machine. The entire affair had been brought to the room in parts over a period of weeks and then assembled. Maids had been kept out by giving the front desk strict orders to not have anyone enter the room.

  The unit was used on construction sites to bore through concrete in order to lay cables.

  Al-Khalifa figured it would go through a floor just fine.

  THE EMIR OF Qatar was sleeping peacefully on the floor above. Security teams from the Corporation were passing the night on duty in rooms across the hall and adjacent to the emir's suite. They were sure the snatch would go down tonight. In the room across the hall, Jones and Meadows carefully watched the remote cameras. To the left of the emir's suite, Monica Crabtree made notes while Cliff Hornsby cleaned a handgun. In the room on the right side of the suite, Hali Kasim and Franklin Lincoln were picking at a platter of sandwiches as they waited.

  There was nothing to indicate what was about to happen.

  ONE FLOOR BELOW, Al-Khalifa placed a pair of night-vision goggles over his eyes, then fingered the remote control and stared at his watch. The seconds ticked past until the hand swept across 3 a.m. Then Al-Khalifa felt a rumble through the floors of the building and the lights went dead.

  Al-Khalifa pushed the starter and the boring machine roared to life. Pressing the button to raise the ram, he watched as the shaft and spinning blade h
eaded toward the ceiling. As soon as the blade made contact with the ceiling, it tore into the drywall and wooden supports, spewing wood slivers and dust into the room. The blade was through the ceiling in less than ten seconds, and fresh air from above filtered down. Lowering the ram, Al-Khalifa tossed the plywood sheet across the sharp prongs of the blade, then grabbed the control box again, climbed onto the plywood, and raised the ram with the power to the blade shut off. A second later he was up in the emir's room and stepped onto the floor.

  Through the night-vision goggles, Al-Khalifa could see someone sitting in bed, rubbing his eyes. Sprinting across the suite, he grabbed a chair and jammed it under the doorknob, then raced back to the emir's bed.

  Bending over, he taped the man's mouth and eyes shut, then pulled him from the bed and over to the hole. Once they were both on the plywood, he used the remote to lower the shaft and then pulled the man onto the floor and dragged him toward the door. Opening the door, he pulled the man down the hallway to the fire escape stairs and down.

  Less than two minutes had passed since Al-Khalifa had started his plan.

  A few minutes more and he'd be on the road.

  "GOT IT," JONES said.

  The Corporation teams were outfitted with small, powerful flashlights that clipped onto their belts. Eight thin beams of light flickered in the hall outside the emir's suite.

  "The light went green," Meadows shouted after slipping an extra card key through the slot outside the emir's suite, "but the door won't open."

  "Hali," Jones shouted, "you and Lincoln go down to the garage and block the exit."

  The pair of men raced off.

  "Crabtree, Hornsby," he added, "guard the lobby exit."