Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  Khuddari nodded and took a longer look at the frameworks. If they represented a street corner or park that he knew, he didn’t recognize it. Bigelow shrugged when Khuddari shot him an inquiring glance.

  “For all I know, it could be the street corner in Manchester where I grew up.” Bigelow spat into the sand.

  “Rufti doesn’t have the imagination for something outside of the UAE. This must represent a street in Abu Dhabi City. But I don’t think there’s any way to tell which.”

  “What should we do?”

  Before Khuddari could answer, one of Bigelow’s troopers called to them. He was kneeling off to the right of the parade ground, far from the cluster of tents. His bright teeth were visible as he smiled under a black, drooping mustache. Bigelow and Khuddari were at his side in an instant, peering over his shoulder at what he’d found in the sand.

  Bigelow picked up the item and examined it as critically as a master jeweler peering into a diamond before making the critical first cut.

  “Nine-millimeter Parabellum casing,” he said at once. “There’s an FIO stamp on the head, which means it was manufactured by Fiocci in Italy. The primer was flattened when it was fired, so we can assume it was hot loaded. By the depth of the bullet sealant left inside the casing, I’d guess it was loaded with 124-grain bullets and Winchester AA7 powder, about nine grains or so considering the distortion.”

  “Can you tell what type of gun it was fired from?”

  “Not without a laboratory and a couple weeks. It could have been anything from a Luger to an Uzi.” Bigelow slipped the spent cartridge into the breast pocket of his fatigues. “I can tell you it was fired at least a few weeks ago; there’s no trace of a cordite smell to it at all. Christ, the bloody thing could have been here since World War Two.”

  “I wish.” Khuddari turned away and started back for the helicopter, Bigelow closing on his heels quickly. “Tell your men to head home. We’ve been here long enough. I don’t think we’ll learn anything else.”

  Bigelow whistled shrilly, and immediately his Sergeant Major acknowledged the order to pull out by calling to his men. The troops started for the two desert vehicles, weapons at the ready, a beautifully executed tactical withdrawal. Bigelow’s men were well drilled and disciplined, like the man who’d trained them.

  The Gazelle’s rotor was already turning lazily as they approached, the turbine just beginning to build up to an earsplitting whine. The two men vaulted into the cabin and buckled their seat belts. After a few moments’ pause, the French-built helicopter lifted into the air. The rotor’s down force threw up a cloud of dust that obliterated any sign that it had landed. Khuddari and Bigelow were quiet during the flight home, each respecting the contemplative silence of the other. Only after they were safely back in Abu Dhabi airspace did the younger man speak.

  “Rufti left for London this morning to act as an observer at the OPEC meetings that start in two days. His men are obviously finished training for whatever they are planning, so I’m sure they’ll strike soon. Rufti’s gutless enough not to be around when the bullets start to fly.”

  “You’re convinced that they’re planning some sort of assault?”

  “It’s obvious. We just don’t know the target. I have an audience with the Crown Prince this afternoon, and I’m going to tell him everything we’ve found. I’m also going to tell him that I’m not going to the meeting in England.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Your not attending won’t look good to the rest of the family. This is the first Cartel meeting since you became Petroleum Minister.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that,” Khuddari snapped. “This is more important than my career. I can’t afford to be in some boardroom when Rufti strikes. I should have killed the fat Lootee when I had the chance.”

  “We’ll get the buggerer, mark my words.”

  Abu Dhabi City spread below them as the chopper flew. Only a handful of buildings were older than twenty-five years; prestressed concrete and smoked glass had replaced traditional stone architecture as the nation struggled into the twenty-first century. Not long ago men here would have fought to the death over the theft of a goat or an insult to a family member, and that ruthlessness still molded the people of the Gulf. But now, with petrodollars pushing the stakes to the highest levels, a rivalry would end not with just a single death but hundreds or possibly thousands. Rufti was working to destabilize the confederation of the UAE, one that was shaky at best. He had put a lot of money and effort into his plan, and whatever his target, Khuddari knew it could mean the end of the Emirates as a single country.

  Oil had been the salvation of the nation, but perhaps the ceaseless sawing of the horse-head wells spread throughout the land were pounding out her death knell, too. The money that the elite of the UAE possessed had not tempered their unyielding nature and, in fact, had fueled their ability to exercise it. Rufti’s greed might very well sever the vital artery of oil that allowed him to exist.

  Khuddari had to admit that if Rufti was planning a coup, he couldn’t have selected a better time. The Crown Prince was at odds with most of the Supreme Federal Council, composed of the six rulers of the other Emirates, and with the Council of Ministers, the legislative arm of the nation. The schisms stemmed from the Americans’ announcement to phase out all oil imports within ten years. That act could cripple the money-based power structure of the Emirates, weakening the Prince’s position so that a coup might be seen as a beneficial act rather than one of naked aggression. The political climate was ripe for a change to face this new, uncertain future, and Rufti could be in the perfect place to exploit it. Khalid hoped that his thin evidence was enough to convince the Crown Prince that he and the nation were in danger, but no matter how credible Khuddari was in the Sovereign’s eyes, a lone shell casing and a deep suspicion weren’t much. He feared that his pleas would fall on deaf ears.

  He craned his head as he looked out the window at the city below. This close to shore, the water of the Gulf was an iridescent aquamarine, a dazzling shade more suited for neon signs than nature. Because the water was only ten fathoms deep and nearly one hundred degrees, there was little life to cloud the sea. An empty supertanker rode high just where the Gulf turned darker and deeper, her upper deck painted a dull oxide red that matched the twenty feet of her underbelly that showed below her Plimsoll line. At this distance, Khalid couldn’t read the name on her stern, but the activity of the small boats cruising around the monstrous ship indicated that she was hove to for repairs.

  He turned away, absently wondering why the vessel wasn’t at the huge new shipyard at Port Rashid near Dubai City. The Gazelle was coming in for her landing, and he didn’t give the tanker another thought.

  The Richardson Highway North of Valdez, Alaska

  The Richardson Highway, arguably one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the world, parallels the Tiekel River as it gouges its way through a rocky canyon. The road boasts no fewer than twenty-five scenic overviews within the first forty miles north of Valdez. At points, the valley was barely wide enough to allow the river and two lanes of traffic; other times it opened dramatically into alpine meadows and side valleys with spectacular views of the Chugach Mountains and the Worthington Glacier. The highway also traversed Thompson Pass, an area fabled for holding all three national records for snowfall — seasonally, monthly, and for a twenty-four-hour period. On a single day in 1955, more than five feet of snow had covered the top of the twenty-six-hundred-foot pass. But there would be no records tonight. A storm was dropping snow, but rain fell with it, creating a frigid slurry that squirted from under the heavy lugged tires of a fuel tanker truck as it sped north.

  The beauty of the ride was lost on the driver of the eighteen-wheeled tractor trailer; the truck’s powerful headlamps couldn’t penetrate deep enough into the storm to reveal the towering cliffs over his head or the vistas to the left and right. Occasionally, one of the many waterfalls not yet frozen by the unusually frigid weather flashed by lik
e a white smear against the black night, but he had eyes only for the dark ribbon spread before his truck.

  Brock Holt was not a happy man despite the country music blaring from the cab’s eight speakers. The conditions of the road didn’t bother him too much. To a native of Prince William Sound, a storm like this was nothing but a mild nuisance. What bothered him was the full load of Petromax gasoline, nearly eight thousand gallons, in the tanker behind him. He hadn’t been scheduled to make the run from the Anchorage depot for another two days, but the influx of media had supposedly emptied the service stations around Valdez. His dispatcher had assured him the early run was necessary, yet when he arrived at the Petromax stations, he found that they hadn’t called for him. In fact, they probably wouldn’t need the gas from his regular delivery either.

  The stations’ owners complained that an environmental group had targeted them for a series of protests and boycotts. While the other stations in town were doing a brisk business, collectively Petromax hadn’t sold more than fifty gallons all week. The dispatcher must have assumed that since the other stations were pumping, so was Petromax. “Snafu,” Holt cursed as he began the long haul back north, anxious to chew out his dispatcher, Hank Kelso.

  Since he was missing a repeat of the Country Music Awards on cable, Holt soothed himself by selecting another disc on the ten-disc CD changer in the cab. His only consolation, thin as it was, was that traffic on a night like this was nearly nonexistent. He rolled the big diesel as fast as he dared in the vain hope that he could catch the show’s big finale just before midnight.

  ON the downhill side of Thompson Pass, in a forlorn gravel turnoff overlooking the Worthington Glacier thirty miles from Valdez, a yellow Range Rover sat as quiet as the storm, its lights off and its engine idling just enough for the heaters to work. The only indication that the luxury vehicle was occupied was the frosting of the passengers’ breath that smoked the windscreen and side windows. The custom-painted Rover had been there so long that its tire tracks had been obliterated by the continuous snowfall.

  Two of the three men in the vehicle had fidgeted away the past two hours, shifting constantly in the plush leather seats, sighing occasionally and staring at the cellular phone mounted under the dash in the hope that it would ring. The third man, the driver, sat calmly watching the storm, following individual drifting flakes as if they needed his permission to land. The intensity of his blue eyes was almost enough to melt snowflakes before they touched the ground.

  His hands, powerful and deeply tanned, rested on the steering wheel, the occasional tap of his index finger betraying the anxiety he felt. His handsome face was as still as the glacier to their left. While the other two men sported layers of wool, nylon, and Gore-Tex, he wore only a Norwegian roll-neck fisherman’s sweater and a pair of jeans. His companions shivered in the cab of the Rover and muttered complaints, but he didn’t even feel the cold. He saw the low temperature as something to be embraced rather than warded off.

  Nature, he thought, was not meant to be a struggle; it was to be enjoyed. To fight it only served to antagonize it and force it to oppose that much more. He’d often said that every time we attempt to show dominion over nature, she counters, even stronger than before. To him, it made more sense to accept its elemental life force and revel in its magnificence.

  He’d tried to teach that to his people, but few really understood. True, some would join him when he swam in subarctic water or trekked through searing deserts, but they did it more out of sheer will than in communion. To them, it was a means of proving that they could endure the worst that nature possessed. They faced the elements not as its vassal but as an equal. He saw his actions as the highest form of worship. To stand before a natural force was to stand before God Himself.

  The only other person who truly understood was Aggie. She saw nature as he did. The crashing waves of a winter storm on a forlorn coast or an intense rain that made it impossible to breathe were forces that she could appreciate. She saw these things as the highest expression of perfection. Let others stand in awe before a Picasso or the Sistine Chapel. These were man-made and thus inherently flawed. They paled before the perfect beauty of a tropical sunset or a coral reef. Aggie believed him when he said that humanity had changed so much from our original intentions that we had become a danger to the planet. She didn’t balk when he said that if the end of our existence was the price to pay to save the earth, then so be it.

  The ring of the phone was just a quiet chirp, but the men in the Rover started at the sound. They’d been waiting two long hours for it. There was no need to answer the call. Their look-out had already hung up and was on his way back to Valdez from his position atop Thompson Pass.

  They didn’t speak as they exited the vehicle, stretching for a moment to work out the kinks from so many hours of immobility. The driver opened the back door of the truck, revealing the five-gallon red plastic jerry cans that they’d loaded in Valdez. Each can weighed thirty-five pounds, and as each man heaved two from the cargo deck, only the driver didn’t stagger or struggle with his burden.

  The storm whipped at them without mercy, snow and wind battering all three as they crossed the parking area, heading for the shoulder of Richardson Highway. They had chosen this location for two reasons. It was the steepest part of the descent from the top of the pass, and the road curved sharply along the precipitous bank of the Tiekel River, twenty-five feet below.

  Their actions were well planned and carried out with a minimum of confusion. The lookout’s call confirmed that the Petromax tanker truck had just reached the pinnacle of Thompson Pass and that no other traffic was headed their way. Each man emptied his cans of water onto the road in a precise area, so that a maximum amount of the highway was soon covered with a thin sheet of invisible black ice. This alone would not guarantee that the truck would skid out of control, so they had to be back in the Rover before the tractor trailer appeared.

  “Hurry up,” the driver urged, though he knew by earlier timed tests that they had another few minutes.

  The last can was emptied, and the water rushed down the inclined road for a moment before slowing to the pace of molasses as it froze. The three men hurried to the Rover, the driver shifting the idling vehicle into gear as he settled in the seat. His two companions muttered about the weather and brushed themselves off, but a childlike, expectant tension shone on their youthful faces. They’d just pulled off a bit of mischief and gotten away with it. To them, it all seemed a game.

  The driver, older by fifteen years and wiser by a couple of centuries, knew what was at stake. He understood fully what they had just done and silently wished that they could do it more often.

  Brock Holt eased the truck over the top of the pass and worked the transmission up through a few gears. He’d driven this road so many times in the past six years that he knew he wouldn’t need to downshift for another mile and a half, until the road really started to descend into the gorge. The storm had intensified since he’d left Valdez, but it still wasn’t strong enough to concern him. He kept one hand on the wheel as he slid a stick of chewing gum from the pack he’d left on the center console. His heavily bearded jaws jumped rhythmically as he chomped on the gum and mumbled the words to the song belting from the stereo. The digital clock on the dash told him that he just might make it to Anchorage in time to see the finish of his show on the small black-and-white TV in Hank Kelso’s office.

  The road started to drop away, and Brock downshifted, the big diesel bellowing at the extra strain of slowing the rig. The steering wheel was a living creature under his hands, twisting and writhing as he guided the eighteen-wheeler off of Thompson Pass. As the road dipped farther, he dropped one more gear, slowing even more, cautiously easing the truck along the road. When the front wheels hit the black ice, he was traveling slowly enough to correct for the short slide, but the patch was much larger than anything he’d ever experienced before.

  The cab began losing its grip on the road. Holt could feel the wheels s
pinning uselessly against the slick surface, yet he had no choice but to turn the wheel to take the corner coming at him dangerously fast. He feathered the brakes and shifted down into low range, using the engine to gain just enough traction to keep the rig on the road. As the truck began to respond, he became aware that his heart had moved from his chest and was now pounding in his throat. For the barest fraction of a second, he’d almost lost the rig, but he’d gathered the truck like a wild horse bucking at the reins.

  That’s when he saw the yellow Range Rover pulling out of an overlook and diving straight into his path.

  He mashed his foot against the brake, slamming the pedal against its stop in a purely reflexive act. Even as he cursed the idiot in the other vehicle, he could feel his rig losing control once again. The massive trailer and its forward movement was a force that the cab could not overcome. The rig began to jack-knife, the trailer pushing the truck out to the side of the road in an obtuse angle. Just as quickly as the Range Rover had jumped into his path, it dove out of the way of the runaway tractor trailer. But it was too late for Brock Holt.

  The cab was now perpendicular to the trailer, hurtling down the icy road in the grip of gravity, wheels slipping against the icy tarmac. The guardrail separating the highway from the deadly drop to the river was just a narrow band of steel, puny compared to the force of the truck. Brock tried to steer into the skid and once again put the cab in front, but the trailer, with its twenty-eight tons of gasoline, pushed remorselessly and could not be controlled. The front fender of the cab now touched the rounded side of the tanker as it hurtled down the road.

  In a last-ditch effort, Brock Holt hit the accelerator, hoping he could whip the trailer around, setting the rig back in tandem. His gambit almost paid off. The drive wheels were out of the ice-covered lane and began to pull against the trailer, dragging it slowly under control. Had the curve been another hundred feet away, he would have made it. The back of the cab hit the guardrail first, buckling the metal so badly that when the trailer hit an instant later, the whole section let go.