Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  "Front or back?"

  "In the front on the passenger seat," Bennett shouted.

  The attendant picked up the box and walked around the rear of the Cessna.

  CABRILLO GLANCED AT the gauge again. The needle was maxed out, laying against the line marked ten. He glanced up from the gauge and through the windshield just as the attendant began walking around the rear of the plane with the box. It was the same box Cabrillo had seen for a split second in Greenland.

  He hit the gas just as the attendant placed the box in the plane and closed the door.

  The Cessna started to taxi away. The plane had a head start and was about to turn onto the runway when Cabrillo reached full speed. Cabrillo steered the Smart Car with his knees while he reached into a holster that hung down under his arm. With his right hand he removed a Smith 8c Wesson .50-caliber handgun. With his left he rolled down the driver's window.

  Turning on the side road, Bennett turned to line up on the runway. Glancing to the rear, he noticed the Smart Car racing after him. For a second he thought it might be the attendant chasing after him to flag him down for some reason. Then Bennett noticed a hand come out of the window with a nickel-plated revolver.

  Bennett advanced the throttle and pulled onto the runway. Already cleared for takeoff, he took the Cessna up to safe rotation speed. It would be a close race.

  Cabrillo followed the Cessna onto the runway and gave chase. The plane was accelerating hard, and it was obvious the pilot was not considering stopping. As soon as Cabrillo had the Smart Car cruising at fifty miles an hour, he set the cruise control and slid himself through the window until he was sitting on the windowsill.

  Lining up his shots carefully, he began firing at the plane.

  BENNETT HEARD AND felt a bullet impact on his left wing strut. That was followed by the report from more bullets being fired. Reaching proper takeoff speed, he rotated by pulling back on the yoke. Lifting into the air, Bennett waited until he was at three hundred feet of elevation before glancing back.

  The Smart Car had stopped at the end of the runway.

  And the man that had been driving the car was racing toward a helicopter that had just touched down. Bennett advanced the throttle to the stops as Cabrillo climbed into the passenger seat in the Robinson.

  "Think you can catch him?" he shouted to Adams as he lifted off.

  "It'll be close," Adams said.

  Chapter 26

  JUST TO THE south of the Faeroe Islands a layer of clouds lay almost to the sea. The leading edge of a storm heading from south to north, the clouds had pelted the British Isles with rain and snow for the last two days. As soon as the Robinson R-44 entered the maelstrom, it was as if Adams and Cabrillo had stepped inside a maze.

  One minute they would have a stretch of clear skies, the next they would enter another cloud bank and lose all sight of the Cessna and the water beneath them. Winds buffeted the helicopter, changing directions and velocity like a puck on an air hockey table. The coastline of Scotland was just over two hundred and eighty miles to the south. Inverness, the first city where they might refuel, another seventy.

  With both of the fuel tanks filled, Adams and Cabrillo could make land—but only if the headwinds cooperated. The Robinson had a range without reserves of four hundred miles, tops. The Cessna 206 could do just over eight hundred miles. Bennett had not refueled the 206 in the Faeroe Islands—as soon as he saw that Cabrillo was pursuing him, he had taken off as quickly as possible—so here both aircraft were evenly matched.

  As for cruising speed, the ratings were equal at 130 miles per hour.

  "There," Cabrillo said, pointing through an opening in the cloud bank, "he's a couple miles ahead."

  Adams nodded; he'd been watching the Cessna appear and disappear for the last ten minutes. "I doubt he sees us," Adams said. "We're below him, and far enough back that we're out of his rear field of view."

  "He can still pick us up on his avoidance radar," Cabrillo noted.

  "I don't think he has one," Adams said. "That's an old-model Cessna."

  "Can you speed up?"

  "We're running dead out, boss," Adams said, pointing to the air speed indicator, "and so is he, I'd judge. I can't climb to dive down and gain speed that way. I'd lose too much forward air speed in the climb—he'd pull ahead out of sight."

  Cabrillo considered this for a moment. "Then all we can do is follow along," he said, "and call for help."

  "That's it," Adams said.

  JAMES BENNETT FLEW along thinking he was alone in the sky. He was not familiar with the Robinson R-44's cruising speed but he knew most of the smaller helicopters topped out at around a hundred miles an hour. By his estimates, by the time he reached Scotland, the helicopter—if it was still following—would be at least a half hour behind him. Bennett reached for his satellite telephone and placed a call.

  "I picked up the package," he said, "but I think I have a tail."

  "Are you sure?" the voice asked.

  "Not positive," Bennett answered, "but if I do, I think I can outrun him. The problem is, once I land, I'll only have a half hour or so to make the transfer. Is that a problem?"

  The man on the other end of the line thought for a moment before answering. "I'll work something out," he said, "and call you back."

  "I'll be here," Bennett said, disconnecting.

  Adjusting the trim to keep the Cessna flying straight, Bennett scanned the instruments, paying particular attention to the fuel gauge. It was going to be close. Holding the yoke as the Cessna was lifted up by a thermal current, he waited until the plane settled back down to his cruising altitude. Then he reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee from a battered Stanley thermos he'd owned for close to twenty years.

  "I'LL CALL OVERHOLT," Hanley said, "and have him get the British to scramble some fighter jets and force the plane down. That should wrap this up."

  "Just make sure he has the British wait until the Cessna is over land," Cabrillo said. "I don't want to lose the meteorite now."

  "I'll make sure he understands that," Hanley said.

  "How far are you from port in the Faeroes?"

  "About twenty minutes."

  "Did the Danes impound the yacht yet?" Cabrillo asked.

  "According to the last message from Washington, they don't have the manpower," Hanley said. "But they have a policeman on the hill near the airport watching the ship—that's the best they can do for right now."

  Cabrillo thought for a second. "Has anyone recovered the nuclear bomb?"

  "Not according to my last intelligence."

  "It might be on the yacht," Cabrillo noted.

  "The source Overholt had claims it was loaded on an old cargo ship."

  "Whoever these guys are," Cabrillo said, "they seem to like to switch at sea. There's a good chance that they met up with the cargo ship somewhere and then took the weapon on board."

  "What do you think we should do?"

  "Let's recommend to Overholt that the yacht be allowed to leave port," Cabrillo said. "Keep the Oregon away from it—let's let the British or American navy deal with the problem. They can board the yacht at sea—there's a lot less risk that way."

  "I'll call Overholt now," Hanley said, "and report our recommendations."

  The telephone went dead, and Cabrillo sat back in his seat. He had no way of knowing that the meteorite and the nuclear bomb were possessed by two separate factions.

  One group was planning a strike for Islam.

  The second was planning a strike against Islam.

  Hatred fueled them both.

  Chapter 27

  AS SOON AS the Gulfstream landed in Las Vegas, Truitt left Gunderson and Pilston with the plane and hailed a cab. The weather was clear and sunny with a light breeze blowing down from the mountains outside Las Vegas. The dry air seemed to magnify the surroundings, and the mountains, though miles distant, seemed close enough to touch.

  Tossing his bag on the rear seat, Truitt climbed in the front with the
driver.

  "Where to?" the driver asked in a voice that sounded like Sean Connery with a smoker's hack.

  "Dreamworld," Truitt answered.

  The driver put the cab in gear and sped off away from the airport.

  "Have you stayed at Dreamworld before?" the cabbie asked as they were nearing the famed Strip.

  "Nope," Truitt said.

  "It's a high-tech paradise," the driver said, "a man-created environment."

  The driver slowed and entered the rear of a line of cabs and personal automobiles waiting to pull into the entrance. "Be sure to catch the lightning storm out on the rear grounds this evening," he said, turning sideways to look at Truitt. "The display is every hour on the hour."

  The line moved forward and the driver steered the cab onto a driveway leading toward the hotel. A few feet off the street, he drove through a portal with plastic strips hanging to the ground that reminded Truitt of the entrances to food cold-storage warehouses.

  Now they were inside a tropical forest. A jungle canopy stretched overhead and the inside of the cab's windows began to fog from the humidity. The driver pulled in front of the main entrance and stopped.

  "When you get out," he said, "watch for the birds. I had a customer last week who claimed he was dive-bombed and pecked."

  Truitt nodded and paid the driver. Then he climbed out, opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then closed the door again and motioned for the cabbie to pull away. Turning, he watched as a bellman shooed away a thick black snake from the main doors with a broom. Then he glanced up at the canopy overhead. There was no sunlight visible, and the sound of birds chirping filled the space.

  Lifting his bag, Truitt walked over to the bellman's stand.

  "Welcome to Dreamworld," the bellman said. "Are you checking in?"

  "Yes," Truitt said, handing the bellman a fake driver's license from Delaware and a credit card that was tied to the false identity.

  The bellman swiped both through a machine and then took an adhesive coded strip that printed out and slapped it on Truitt's bag. "We will send your bag to your room on our conveyor system," he said efficiently. "The room will be ready and the bag will be in the room"—he paused to stare at the computer screen—"in ten minutes. There is a front desk inside if you wish to arrange casino credit or for anything else you might need. Have a great stay here at Dreamworld."

  Truitt handed the bellman a ten, took the card key for the door and walked toward the entrance. The twin glass doors opened automatically, and what Truitt saw inside astounded him. It was as if the natural world had been brought indoors.

  Just inside the door was a man-made lazy river with guests riding on small boats. In the distance to the left, Truitt could just make out the figures of people scaling an artificial alpine peak. He watched as snow cascaded down, only to be swallowed up by an opening at the base. Truitt shook his head in amazement.

  Truitt continued on until he came to an information desk.

  "Which way to the nearest bar?" he asked the clerk.

  The clerk pointed in the distance. "Just past Stonehenge on the right, sir."

  Truitt walked into a domed area and past an exact-sized replica of Stonehenge. An artificial sun was mimicking the summer solstice and the shadows formed an arm that pointed to the center. Finding the door to the bar—a thick-planked affair peering out from under a thatched roof—Truitt opened it and entered the dimly lit room.

  The bar was a replica of an old English roadhouse. Walking over to a stool constructed from wood, leather, and boar's horns, Truitt sat down and stared at the bar itself. It was a massive slab of wood that must have weighed as much as a dump truck.

  The bar was empty save Truitt, and the bartender approached from the side.

  "Grog or mead, my lord," she asked.

  Truitt considered this for a moment. "Mead, I guess," he said finally.

  "Good choice," the bartender said, "it's a little early for grog."

  "My thoughts exactly," Truitt said as the bartender reached for a glass and began to fill it from a wooden cask behind the bar.

  The bartender was dressed in the costume of a serving wench. Her bosom spilled out of the top of the uniform. Setting the glass in front of Truitt, she made a half bow then backed away down the bar. Truitt sipped the drink and sat in the dark room thinking about the man who had created this man-made wonderland.

  And how he would break into the man's office to search.

  "How much do I owe you?" Truitt asked the bartender.

  "I can put it on your room card," the bartender offered.

  "I'll just pay cash."

  "Morning special," the bartender said, "one dollar."

  Truitt sat a few ones on the bar then walked through the dim room and out the door.

  TURNING LEFT PAST Stonehenge, he entered a massive atrium. In the distance a chairlift led toward the top of a ski mountain with the crest covered in clouds. Walking past the base of the mountain, where people on skis were waiting to take the chairlift up, he watched a few skiers coming down the hill as the fake snow flew through the air like real powder. Continuing past, he came upon an information booth.

  "Do you have maps of the hotel?" Truitt asked the clerk.

  The man smiled and withdrew a map from below the counter and marked their location with a felt-tip pen. Truitt handed the clerk his door card.

  "How do I find my room?" he asked.

  The clerk ran the card through the scanner and stared at the details on the screen. Taking the pen again, he made notes on the margin of the map. "Take the River of Dreams to Owl Canyon and exit the boat at mine shaft seventeen. Then board elevator forty-one for the ride up to your floor."

  "Sounds easy enough," Truitt said as he gathered up the map and slid his room card back in his pocket.

  "That way, sir," the clerk said, motioning.

  Thirty yards past the information kiosk, Truitt came to a railing along the river that led to a boarding station. There, a line of canoes were awaiting passengers. Attached to a cable like an amusement ride, the canoes circled the hotel on a river with no beginning or end. Truitt climbed into the first one in the line and stared at the control pad. Entering mine shaft seventeen on the keypad, he sat back and waited a moment as the canoe lurched from the stop. It headed down through a false canyon with rocky walls.

  Once the canoe automatically stopped at his destination, Truitt climbed out and walked toward a bank of elevators. Finding forty-one, he rode it up to his floor, then exited and walked down a long hallway to his room. Using the card key, he unlocked the door.

  The room was decorated in a mining-town motif. The walls were paneled with weathered wood planks and accented with pressed tin. A sagging bookshelf with old books and novels was propped against the wall. On another side was an old gun rack with fake Winchester rifles bolted down. The bed was wrought iron, piled with what looked like antique quilts. It was as if Truitt had been transported back in time.

  Truitt walked over to the window, parted the drapes and stared down at Las Vegas as if to ensure himself that the world outside was still the same. Then he closed the drapes again and walked into the bathroom. Although it was decorated to appear old, it featured a steam shower and tanning lamps. Splashing some water on his face, he dried himself off then walked back into the room to telephone Hanley.

  "HICKMAN CAN PLAN a major operation," Truitt said when Hanley answered, "that's for sure. You would not believe this place—it's like a theme park with slots."

  "Halpert is still researching him," Hanley said, "but he's secretive. Have you devised a plan to search his office yet?"

  "Not yet, but I'm working on it."

  "Be careful," Hanley told him. "Hickman is very powerful, and we don't want any backlash if it turns out he's not involved."

  "I'll get in and out as quietly as possible," Truitt said.

  "Good luck, Mr. Phelps," Hanley said.

  Truitt started humming the theme to Mission: Impossible as he disconnected.
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br />   SITTING DOWN AT the rolltop desk in the room, Truitt studied the hotel map and the building plans that Hanley had faxed to the Gulfstream before they had landed. Then he took a shower, changed clothes and left the room. He took the elevator down, boarded a canoe and rode it to the main entrance. Then he walked outside and hailed a cab.

  After explaining his destination to the driver, he sat back and waited.

  A few minutes later, the driver pulled up in front of the tallest hotel in Las Vegas. Truitt paid the fare and climbed out. Then he walked into the lobby, purchased a ticket and rode a high-speed elevator to the hotel's observation deck. The entire city of Las Vegas was stretched out beneath him.

  Truitt stared at the view for a few minutes, then walked over to one of the viewers and inserted a few coins. While most of the other tourists scanned the high-powered binoculars from side to side, Truitt kept his trained on just one spot.

  ONCE THE RECONNAISSANCE was completed, Truitt rode the elevator down, hailed another cab, and returned to Dreamworld. It was still a little early, so he went to his room and took a nap. It was just after midnight when he awoke. Brewing a pot of coffee using the pot in the bathroom, he sipped the cup to help himself wake up. Then he shaved, showered again, and walked back into the room.

  Digging into his bag, he removed a black T-shirt and black jeans and dressed. He removed a pair of rubber-soled black shoes from the bag and slid them on his feet. Then he repacked his bag and called the bellman to have it delivered to the front door. Gunderson had been told to pick it up in ten minutes. Before leaving the room, he removed a strangely padded jacket from his bag and slid it over his shoulders. After taking the boat to the lobby, he entered the casino.

  Groups of vacationers, eyes red from lack of sleep, filled most of the seats at the tables and in front of the slot machines. Even this late at night the casino was a moneymaker. Continuing on through the casino, he entered the mall inside the hotel.