Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  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.

  Chapter 19

  THOMAS DWYER WAS a 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-l." 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 non-polluting 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 conversation favor?"

  "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."

  Chapter 20

  AT ABOUT THE time 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 Larissa bobbed 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 extende
d from wrist to elbow. There was little the captain could do—the Larissa was 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.

  Chapter 21

  THE VIEW FROM the front window of the helicopter was a field of lights. On Hanley's orders the crew of the Oregon had 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.