Clicker felt his neck hairs rise. If he had struck a hammer on lead it would make such a sound. So would gold, he expected.
There was frantic clawing at the earth with Maynard's head interfering with the Jordanians' scratching. The camera clicked and the strobe light exploded repeatedly.
Then, Bell saw it. The special smooth glow of pure gold that never dulled no matter how long unpolished. The edge of the shield came into his view, and as described, the rim was encrusted with jewels that flashed and glinted with dazzling intensity.
Maynard called a halt while he reloaded his camera, and Clicker could hear them all panting from an adrenaline rush that speeded pulses and brought sweat to upper lips.
Whether it was a lust for gold or the idea of living history, Bell was unsure, but the result was the same. He ached to jerk the shield from its long burial, to rush it into the sunlight where it could clearly be seen, and to feel its golden weight beneath his hands.
Maynard became more careful. Photographs rolled. Each individual was positioned and photographed with the mostly buried shield, and then all together. Thereafter, the digging proceeded with care. Archeologists would have been horrified by the speed of the dig and the lack of scientific examination and recording, but Bell thought they were working far too slowly for simply removing the shield from its sand bed. He went outside to scout the horizon, but there was nothing new within view.
When the shield was finally carried into the open, Clicker was surprised by its size. He had planned for a three foot shield, about as large as a man could carry, but the shield of the Great Khan was smaller, barely two feet across.
On the other hand, the shield was thick and hugely heavy. To avoid any possibility of damage, the four of them took hold, and the load was still significant.
"Damnation, how much do you think that thing weighs, Clicker?"
"At least two hundred pounds, Colonel. Imagine that, pure gold."
Bell made a quick estimate. "At around three hundred dollars an ounce that would make the gold alone worth about a million dollars."
Maynard chuckled as if relieving tension. "Would that be in Troy weight or...?"
"I don't do Troy, Colonel. Just plain old American sixteen ounce pounds." Bell too enjoyed the release of light humor.
They examined the embedded jewels, and Maynard was again awed. "I have never seen such large stones, Click. Their cutting and polishing is not remarkable, but the size—truly amazing."
"What is this thing in the middle, Colonel? If that is a diamond it has to be the biggest one I ever heard of."
"I don't know." Maynard was running his fingers over the deeply carved lettering on the shield. "I don't know what languages these are, but when he reveals this information, Shelby Grant will become the most famous discoverer of this century."
Bell laughed, delighted with his newest thought. "Professor Grant will be the most famous in the century because he will be starting a new one, Colonel. The professor won't be ready to present this shield for months, and by then it will be the Twenty-First Century, all nice and clean and just waiting for him."
Clicker gave them only a little more time before urging action. "We can look at this thing all we want once we are back at the Sixplex, Colonel.
"What we should do is pack up and get going. You and the men dig some more if you want while I get the shield and the bells sealed in the ATV fuel tank. Then we should haul out."
Maynard agreed. Bell padded the bottom of the tank with blankets before they hoisted the shield into the Kawasaki. Another pair of blankets protected the top and the diggers returned to their burrow.
Clicker placed the bag of gold bells inside the shield's hollow and judged it to weigh about fifty pounds. The beautiful Ushi must have been one strong camel to have paced the thousands of miles bearing the shield and the necklaces of bells. Perhaps they were not all around her neck, but—Bell got to his work.
Nothing goes as swiftly as hoped, and sealing the tank with silicone, replacing the rivets, and spraying the tank with touch-up until it looked original ate away the hours.
Even then, Greg Maynard was not finished. A few more bells had been found, and something that was probably a steel buckle was uncovered.
Clicker spent his time packing away their camp. He placed everything unnecessary within the hide and replaced all of the ATVs' spark plugs and air cleaners. As expected the filters were partly clogged, and Bell was grateful for new ones. Oil levels were unchanged, and the ATVs' radiators remained at full levels.
With nothing more to do, Clicker walked to his high spot and studied the desert. He stayed longer than might be expected with his binoculars held to his eyes. When he lowered them, he glanced at his watch and trotted to the hide.
"Everybody out, Colonel. We've got company coming down the road and coming fast." Bell's voice did not sound worried, but he was not fooling.
Maynard exploded from the hide opening.
"How far away?"
"A long way, but they are coming strong. Their dust cloud is high and moving. Might be ten miles out"
"You got us all ready, Clicker?"
"We're ready, and here's the plan." Bell did not waste words.
"These people may not be looking for us or the hide, but I don't like coincidences. The important thing is to get the shield out of here.
"You will do that, Colonel. You will take "Hey" and "You" on the shield ATV and move out smartly, but you will hold to the low ground and try to avoid raising dust"
Bell saw the Colonel's mouth begin to open and moved in ahead of objections.
"Now look, Greg. Let's not act like a "B" movie where everybody wastes time arguing over what's fair or best when they should be acting.
"I will stay here until I know what these people intend. If I have to, I will delay them while you keep moving, but they may just be coming to the radar site."
Again Bell stopped Maynard's protests. "I'm not planning on suicide or moldering in an Iraqi jail, Colonel. I'll move when its time, and I will meet you just across the Jordanian border, if not before."
Clicker was pushing the workers onto the ATV. The young men were clearly worried, and Maynard saw their concern.
"Damn it, Bell...."
"I know all that you are going to say, Colonel. Just as you know what I would say. So, pile on and get moving. Time's a'wastin'."
Maynard took his place and the Kawasaki started on the first turn.
"Damn it, Clicker."
"Don't sweat it, Colonel." Bell handed him the .30 caliber M40A1, three boxes of cartridges, and the long dead Iraqi's Kalashnikov.
"I'll have the Barrett, if I need a rifle. Nothing will get close to me, you can bet on it." Bell slapped Maynard's shoulder and turned away, as if absolutely certain that the Colonel would do his bidding.
Swearing to himself, Maynard pressed his thumb on the throttle and the ATV swung away.
The Jordanian men waved, and Clicker waved back, but Maynard was busy driving the machine.
Clicker turned to his business.
He re-entered the hide and used the spotting scope to study the oncoming dust cloud. Looked like a civilian car, a jeep-like vehicle, and a truck. A lot of people. Maybe they were not coming for the shield or the team looking for it.
But more than likely they were.
Clicker drove his ATV two hundred yards further into the dunes and into a low spot. He barely crept along so that no dust would be raised.
He stood on the seat studying Maynard's route, but he saw no revealing dust.
Back at the hide, he settled behind the spotting scope to watch the small convoy come in. The car wheeled to a halt, the jeep followed, and someone waved the truck toward the meager shelter of a half-standing wall.
There was some milling while the truck dismounted a dozen Iraqi soldiers. Armed and helmeted, these were not construction workers.
The Jeep disgorged four men, and two of them carried the long and distinctive Dragunov sniper rifles, rifles
better suited for long desert ranges than the usual Kalashinkovs carried by regular troops, and Clicker believed the plot had thickened.
The snipers were joined by the occupants of the automobile. They became eight in number, and they stood together looking toward the hide.
One pointed in the hide's direction, and the last of Bell's doubts fled. The question became how soon they would come to him?
Clicker judged the hours of daylight remaining. If they came now, he would have to delay them because the jeep could overtake the heavily loaded ATV, and given enough time, even the truck might catch up.
If they came now, he doubted the truck would be included. The soldiers were lolling about, and a fire was beginning its blaze.
There would be no hurried shooting on his part. The vehicles would have to wind their way uphill, and they would be under his Barrett the entire way.
How long should he wait? The Barrett could pump rounds at them from far beyond the Dragunovs' range, or he could wait until they were closer and be absolutely certain to take out the vehicles.
Getting the vehicles was most important. Once they were down, he could make his own withdrawal unimpeded.
One of the figures had binoculars to his eyes, and as he watched, another removed what could be a spotting scope from the civilian vehicle and perched it on the roof.
Bell did not like it. His own scope was deep enough within the hide to be unobservable, but it appeared that the Iraqis were not coming ahead without their own cautions.
Clicker studied the figures more intently. One was dressed western in an open throated shirt. He soon separated himself from the others and stood hands on hips studying the hide area English or American, Clicker expected.
Familiarity tugged at a corner of Bell's mind, but the face was too distant and was shaded by a Crocodile Dundee broad brimmed hat.
That was probably the infamous Tex standing down there looking back at him. Why wouldn't it be? The only coincidence here was their arrival at this deserted place at more or less the same time. Tex, if that was who it was, had Iraqi connections, and he had come with a big team.
Tough darts, Tex baby. You waited too long. If they did not come up the hill before dark, Clicker promised himself a scout downhill to get a close-in look at Tex's ugly mug.
Hell, by then the Colonel would be near the Jordanian border. Maybe he would be wise to just shoot Tex and be done with it. If the vehicles came for him, he would give that serious thought.
Clicker turned to the Barrett .50 caliber. He checked it carefully and tucked his extra loaded magazines inside his shirt. If he had to make a running fight of it, he would like to have a lot more ammo, but if he couldn't stop everybody with what he was already lugging, maybe he ought to just surrender and save such embarrassment.
+++
Todd Gilroy was not enjoying the trip. The men who had met him at the airport were surly and furtively hurried. They acted as if spies were watching their every move—and maybe they were. Iraq was not a friendly place.
He had climbed into the Mercedes, and the driver had headed west without preamble. There were no offers of coffee or tours of the city sights.
Gilroy understood the message. He was here to point out a particular spot; then he was to be roused out of the country as if he had never existed.
Gilroy did not care. He would be paid the other half of his agreed upon money, and he would forever have Henri Deladier under his thumb. One false move and the damning document that Gilroy had composed would be delivered to the law.
Of course, Gilroy himself would be in deep trouble if the letter was exposed, but Deladier would not care about that. Protecting his own hide would be his primary desire. He would pay and pay, but Gilroy promised himself that he would not drain the golden goose. He would ask for relatively little, and both of them could enjoy decent lives.
The ride was long, but holding to the best pace of the jeep and the truckload of armed protectors, the air conditioned car chewed at the miles.
There was light remaining when the remains of the radar site came into view, but Todd Gilroy recognized none of it. Blown into wreckage, the ruins offered no familiar shapes or clues as to what had been. For a lengthy moment panic clogged Gilroy's breathing, but his sense of direction returned quickly, and by the time they slewed to a stop, he believed he was fairly well oriented.
To the west, almost into the setting sun the ground rose and became a wasteland of ridges and low mounds. The hide was in there, but he had never viewed it from the radar site.
The single official who spoke English asked for directions, and Gilroy pointed in the general direction. He explained that he would have to get into the hills to find the exact spot, but even from here he thought he could almost see the correct mound.
There was to be a delay while the hungry soldiers brewed and ate whatever they had for rations. Gilroy compared the motley squad to the clean efficiency of the Marines with whom he had served. At such moments he almost missed the Corps, but to hell with them. They had screwed over him for his entire enlistment, and nobody gave the shaft to Todd Gilroy.
The jeep driver produced a spotting scope, and Gilroy turned from studying the Iraqi Dragunov rifles to examine the hills they would soon enter.
He remembered a long and sloping hollow that led almost directly to the hide and recognized it immediately. He adjusted the scope to follow the land until it entered the hills, and after careful searching he thought he might actually be looking at the opening from which they had so closely studied the radar site all those years past.
The sensation was eerie, and the nerves behind his neck tingled, as if Clicker Bell or Corporal Giacamo were laying up there looking back at him.
Ridiculous. Giacamo was dead and buried, and Bell was in California.
Gilroy thought about the car driving straight at the hide. Man, if anyone was there, they would have awful good shooting.
Ridiculous! The place was as deserted as the moon. No tire marks disturbed the dust that had settled over everything. Why would anyone be in such a place, anyway?
He waited impatiently while the men ate, and the snipers fiddled with their weapons. Gilroy was disdainful. Compared to the Marine M40Al's, the Dragunovs were primitive. Given his old Marine rifle, Gilroy would have taken them both on without hesitating an instant.
It wasn't just the rifles, of course. The Iraqis had no scout sniper schools like the Corps boasted. Marines knew things these smelly A-rabs would never know. To hell with them all. He would do what he came for and be out of the place before it got too dark.
The man in charge gave commands and everybody loaded up. Gilroy sat up front next to the driver and pointed the way.
He still didn't feel good about it. You just shouldn't ride straight in on an enemy position. It didn't matter whether you thought anyone was there or not. Only a little way along he called for a halt, and the English speaker examined him curiously.
Gilroy did his best to explain his reservations. It was only instinct and training, he tried to explain; finally the man nodded impatiently, and Gilroy made his suggestion.
The jeep with the snipers and a driver would swing wide to the right. There was a parallel hollow over there. The jeep would drive up it until it was past the first mounds and ridges. Then the snipers would dismount and work back across to rejoin the car and the truck.
The Iraqi translator was clearly disdainful, but he gave the directions, and the jeep peeled away. Gilroy wanted the jeep to be well ahead where it would divert any concentration on the main vehicles, but the Iraqi leader was clearly impatient and ordered the car forward.
Gilroy exhaled to ease his tension. What did he know about it, anyway? This was the other guy's country, and the Iraqi should know whether it was safe or not.
The jeep disappeared over a low ridge, and the hills concealing the hide became more distinct. Only a little while, and his job would be done. He would ask to depart immediately, and he expected they would be glad to be rid
of him.
+++
Clicker Bell swore aloud as he saw the jeep move away. As sure as hell was hot, the intention was to flank him. How could they have guessed he was there? Maybe they did not really suspect. The Iraqis or Tex could simply be sensibly cautious.
So, what now?
The answer was not comfortable. To delay the Iraqis, he would have to shoot. First would be the car and the truck; then the jeep with the snipers.
He still had the advantage of the long shooting .50 caliber which could knock out both the car and the truck. Off to the flank, the jeep riders might still be beyond the useful range of their less powerful rifles.
He would let the car in to about 800 yards as he had earlier planned, so there was time to think about what was happening.
What a hell of a thing, if you looked at it from the outside. Here he was, caught in the act of stealing national treasure from a foreign country and about to shoot at and probably kill one or more military men who were just doing their jobs.
In many ways, the Iraqis were enemies, and the Air Force was launching rockets at them almost daily. These days, in fact, it seemed as if the United States was shooting at nearly everybody. Bell jerked his thoughts back to the present situation.
He could rationalize that he had not started this mess, and Tex with whoever was behind him had done their damnedest to kill him first. It was probable that everyone he was now looking at was part and parcel of an underhanded scheme to steal the shield of the Great Khan just like he and Greg Maynard were.
Another fact was that he had no other way out. The ground was not rough enough to give his ATV an advantage, and if he did not stop it dead, the jeep would eventually run him down. It really was coming down to "him or them."
Run him like a rabbit? Shoot him while he scurried for a distant border? Not this boy, they wouldn't. Clicker slid behind the Barrett and wedged the butt plate tightly into his shoulder. The Barrett's recoil was not fearsome, but the big rifle bucked enough to require care in positioning.
Braced on its bipod, the rifle lay rock steady, and Bell let enough breath out to allow the crosshairs of his scope to rest on the windshield of the Mercedes. First he would try for Tex, who he had seen enter the front passenger seat. Getting that bastard out of the way would end future appearances. Bell hoped to hell it really was Tex. Had to be. He had been the one pointing at the hide. Who else could it be? No time to worry about it.
Sniper One Page 19