Sacred Stone of-2

by Clive Cussler

  “The problem is,” Hanley said, “with only you and Adams on site, there’s no way you can storm the vessel. It would be suicide.”

  “These guys,” Seng added, “are badasses.”

  Just then the door to the conference room opened and Gunther Reinholt, the Oregon’s aging propulsion engineer, poked his head inside.

  “Mr. Chairman,” he said, “there’s a call you need to take.”

  Cabrillo nodded and rose from the head of the table, then followed Reinholt into the hall. “Who’s calling?” he asked.

  “The president, sir,” Reinholt said, leading Cabrillo toward the control room.

  Cabrillo said nothing—there was really nothing to say. Reaching the control room, he opened the door, made his way over to the secure telephone and lifted the receiver.

  “This is Juan Cabrillo.”

  “Please hold for the President of the United States,” the operator said.

  A second or two later a voice with a twang came on the line. “Mr. Cabrillo,” he said, “good afternoon.”

  “Good afternoon to you, sir,” Cabrillo answered.

  “I have Mr. Overholt here with me—he’s already briefed me. Could you explain the current situation?”

  Cabrillo gave the president a quick recap.

  “I could scramble some planes out of England and take out the ship with a Harpoon missile,” the president said when Cabrillo had finished, “but then the nuke is still out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cabrillo agreed.

  “We can’t land troop transports at the Faeroe airport,” the president continued. “I checked and the airport is too small. That means our only shot is to helicopter in a team, and my estimates are that to prepare and deploy a force up there would take six hours.”

  “We estimate we have three and a half to four hours tops, sir,” Cabrillo said.

  “I checked with the navy,” the president said. “They have nothing in the area.”

  “Mr. President,” Cabrillo said, “we have a locator placed on the meteorite. Until it is combined with the nuclear device, it is of limited threat. If you give us permission, we believe we can follow the meteorite to the location where it is to be mated with the nuke and recover both at the same time.”

  “That’s a risky strategy,” the president said.

  The president turned to Overholt.

  “Juan,” Overholt said, “what are the chances your team can pull this off?”

  “Good,” Cabrillo said quickly, “but there is a wild card.”

  “What’s the wild card?” the president asked.

  “We don’t know for sure who we’re up against. If the people that have the meteorite are a faction of the Hammadi Group, I think we can take them.”

  The president paused before speaking. “Okay,” he said at last, “I say we go ahead as planned.”

  “Very good, sir,” Cabrillo said.

  “Now,” the president said, “we have uncovered an entirely separate problem pertaining to the meteorite. I have a scientist here who will explain.”

  For the next few minutes, Dwyer explained his theory.

  Cabrillo felt a cold chill rising on his back. Armageddon was close at hand.

  “That raises the stakes, Mr. President,” Cabrillo offered, “but the other side must be unaware of the possibility of a released virus. We just learned it was possible ourselves. The fact is that they would be ensuring their own destruction. The only scenario that makes sense is using the meteorite to construct a dirty bomb.”

  “That’s all true,” the president agreed, “and we’ve been hard-pressed to come up with a scenario where the molecules would be penetrated. They need to break the meteorite down somehow for that to happen. Still, the threat exists—and the consequences could be dire and permanent.”

  “If the Corporation had been hired to launch this operation,” Overholt asked, “how would you go about it?”

  “You mean if an evil twin to the Corporation existed and we wanted to kill as many people as possible?” Cabrillo asked. “We would want to introduce the radioactivity in the iridium to the largest possible population.”

  “So you’d need a delivery system of some sort?” the president asked.

  “Correct, Mr. President,” Cabrillo said.

  “Then if we have the British seal off their airspace, the threat of aerial dispersal is eliminated,” the president noted. “Then we just have the bomb to deal with.”

  “We will need increased security at the underground stations and public areas as well,” Cabrillo added, “in case their plan is to dust public areas with radioactive dust. Maybe they have somehow dismantled the nuke and ground up the core, and their plan is to combine it with the iridium in a powdered form to poison the populace.”

  “Then the British will need to watch their mail and package delivery apparatus as well,” the president added. “What else?”

  The four men were silent as they thought.

  “Let’s pray you can recover the meteorite and the bomb together,” the president said, “and protect England from ruin. Any other outcome is too horrible to consider.”

  The call ended, and Cabrillo started walking back to the conference room.

  What he had no way of knowing was that while Great Britain was a target for one operation, the other target was three time zones away to the east.

  Cabrillo opened the door and entered the conference room.

  “I just got off the telephone with the president,” Cabrillo said as he made his way to the head of the table. “We have the resources of the United States government behind us.”

  The group waited for Cabrillo to continue.

  “There’s one other thing,” he continued. “A CIA scientist has advanced a theory that there might be traces of gases from deep space inside the molecules of the meteorite. These gases may have suspended in them a virus or pathogen that could prove deadly. No matter what, once we recover the meteorite it’s not to be disturbed.”

  Julia Huxley spoke. As medical officer, she was tasked with the crew’s safety. “What about exposure to the exterior of the meteorite?” she asked. “You were right next to the orb.”

  “The scientist said that if a virus was on the exterior it would have burned up upon entering the atmosphere. The problem could arise if the meteorite was drilled, for example. If the molecules have arranged themselves in a certain manner, they may have produced pockets larger than molecule size that contain the gases.”

  “How large might these pockets be?” Huxley asked.

  “It’s only a theory,” Cabrillo said, “but the meteorite could be a hollow sphere much like a chocolate Easter egg. Or, there might be clusters of gas like naturally occurring geodes have, where there are pockets of crystal in various sizes. No one knows until it is recovered and studied.”

  “Any idea as to the type of virus?” Huxley asked. “Maybe I can prepare a serum.”

  “None,” Cabrillo said carefully, “but if it’s from space and it’s released on Earth, it couldn’t be good.”

  The room was so quiet you could hear a buzzing fly.

  Cabrillo stared at Hanley.

  “Adams is almost ready to leave,” Hanley said, “and our Challenger 604 will be arriving in Aberdeen shortly.”

  “Where’s Truitt?”

  Richard “Dick” Truitt was the Corporation’s vice president of operations.

  “He was aboard the emir’s plane,” Hanley said. “He returned the emir safely to Qatar. I ordered our Gulfstream in Dubai to fly to Qatar and pick him up. They should have already left and are probably somewhere over Africa.”

  “Send him to London,” Cabrillo ordered. “Keep him and the Gulfstream on standby.”

  Hanley nodded.

  “I want all of you to continue planning the assault of our mystery ship,” Cabrillo said. “If all goes according to plan, we can wrap this up in the next twelve hours. As usual, Hanley is in charge while I’m gone.”

  The crew
nodded and returned to planning as Cabrillo left the room and headed down the passageway to Halpert’s office and knocked.

  “Come in,” Halpert said.

  Cabrillo opened the door and entered. “What have you found out?”

  “I’m still doing research,” Halpert said. “I’m running the various corporations he controls right now.”

  “Make sure you cover his personal life and make up a psych profile.”

  “I’ll do it, sir,” Halpert said, “but as of now, this guy seems to be a true-blue American. He has a DOD clearance, he’s friends with a couple of senators and he was even invited to the president’s ranch once.”

  “So was the North Korean president,” Cabrillo noted.

  “You have a point,” Halpert said, “but be assured that if this guy has one bad wrinkle, I’ll find it.”

  “I’m leaving the ship. Report your findings to Hanley.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  CABRILLO WALKED DOWN the passageway and up the stairs toward the flight deck.

  George Adams was sitting in the pilot’s seat of the Robinson and dressed in a clean khaki-colored flight suit. He had yet to start the engine, and the cockpit was cold. He rubbed his flight gloves together and finished writing in the log attached to a clipboard.

  Flicking on the main battery power switch to check status, he looked up as Cabrillo approached and opened the passenger door. Cabrillo took a bag containing weapons, extra clothing, and electronics and another with food and drinks and placed them in the rear. Once these were safely stowed he looked over at Adams.

  “You need me to do anything, George?” he asked.

  “No, Chief,” Adams said, “everything’s already taken care of. I have a weather report, a flight plan, and the waypoints are logged into the GPS. If you want to climb in and strap on a seat belt, I’ll get this show on the road.”

  Over the years that Adams had worked for the Corporation, Cabrillo had never ceased to be amazed by the helicopter pilot’s efficiency. Adams never complained and never got excited. Cabrillo had flown through some rough conditions with the man, but other than some glib casual comments, Adams seemed unflustered and without fear.

  “Sometimes I wish I could clone you, George,” Cabrillo said as he climbed in and fastened the seat belt.

  “Why, boss,” Adams said, glancing up from the instruments, “then I’d only have half as much fun.”

  Reaching down, Adams twisted the key and the piston engine turned over and settled into an idle. Adams watched the gauges until the engine reached operating temperatures, then radioed the pilothouse.

  “Are we into the wind?”

  “Affirmative,” the reply came.

  Then with a smooth motion he raised the collective and the helicopter lifted from the deck. The Oregon continued steaming until the helicopter was clear. Then Adams accelerated and passed alongside the ship. A couple of minutes later the Oregon was fading behind them in the distance. Now only clouds and the black sea filled the windshield.

  “THAT’S WHAT WE have so far, Mr. Prime Minister,” the president said.

  “I’ll raise the alert status,” the prime minister replied, “and release a cover story to the press that the reason is that we believe a shipment of Ricin poison is loose. That way the terrorists continue with their plans.”

  “Hopefully we can wrap this up soon,” the president said.

  “I’ll alert MI5 and MI6 to coordinate efforts with your people. However, once the meteorite reaches British soil, we’re going to need to take over.”

  “I understand,” the president said.

  “Then good luck,” the prime minister said.

  “Good luck to you.”

  TRUITT STARED AT the side window of the Gulfstream as it streaked across the sky at over five hundred miles an hour. Far below, the coast of Spain sat glowing in the sunlight. Rising from his seat, he walked forward and knocked on the cockpit door.

  “Come on in,” Chuck “Tiny” Gunderson said.

  Truitt opened the door. Gunderson was piloting and Tracy Pilston was in the copilot’s seat. “How’s it going up here?” he asked.

  “Here’s the score,” Pilston said. “Tiny has eaten a turkey on rye, an entire bag of M&M’s and half a can of smoked almonds. I’d keep my hands away from his mouth if I were you.”

  “There are two things that make me hungry,” Gunderson offered. “Flying is one of them, and you know the other one.”

  “Salmon fishing?” Truitt offered.

  “That too,” Gunderson agreed.

  “Dirt biking?” Pilston said.

  “That too,” Gunderson agreed.

  “It’s probably easier to find out what doesn’t make you hungry,” Truitt said.

  “Sleeping,” Gunderson said, slumping over and faking a nap.

  “What did you need, Mr. Truitt?” Pilston asked as Gunderson continued to pretend he was asleep. The Gulfstream flew along untended.

  “I was just curious if we were landing at Gatwick or Heathrow.”

  “Our last orders were Heathrow,” Pilston said.

  “Thanks,” Truitt said as he turned to leave.

  “Can you do me a favor?” Pilston asked.

  “Sure,” Truitt said, turning around.

  “Order Tiny to let me fly, he always hogs the controls.”

  Gunderson’s mouth barely opened as he spoke. “It’s on autopilot.”

  “Play nice, kids,” Truitt said, walking away.

  “I’ll give you a Snickers if you let me fly,” Pilston offered.

  “Shoot, woman,” Gunderson said, “why didn’t you say so?”

  24

  A WIND INFUSED with a fine powdery dust blew from east to west, coating all in its path with grit. Dust in Saudi Arabia was as constant as the tides in the ocean. Cool temperatures like today, however, were as infrequent as steaks at a Hindu wedding.

  Saud Al-Sheik stared at the empty expanse of the giant stadium in Mecca.

  Saudi Arabia was blessed with huge reserves of oil, fine hospitals and schools, and Islam’s holiest site, Mecca. It is recommended that devout Muslims make the pilgrimage to Mecca, or hajj, at least once in their life as a statement of faith. Each year, thousands of the faithful converge, usually in early January, with most also taking a trip to nearby Medina, where the prophet Muhammad is buried.

  The influx of so many pilgrims in so short a span of time is a logistical nightmare. Housing, feeding, caring for the sick and injured, and providing security for the masses is both mind-boggling and expensive.

  Saudi Arabia bears the costs of the pilgrims visiting as well as the public scrutiny if something goes wrong.

  With U.S. and British forces occupying both Iraq and Afghanistan, the simmering hatred for the West that permeated the region was a powder keg ready to explode. Security this year at Mecca would be tight and unyielding. Fundamentalist Muslims wanted the West crushed and wiped from the planet like a plague.

  The hatred was mirrored by the Western world, which after 9/11 and numerous terrorist scares and attacks had lost all patience with the fundamentalist message. If one more attack was to occur with Saudi nationals involved, most citizens in the United States would advocate an occupation of the oil-rich country. The lines in the Western world had become more defined as of late. There were two kinds of people in the world—friend or foe. Friendship was rewarded—enemies should be eradicated.

  Amid all this tension, hatred, violence, and anger, everything needed to be in place for a safe and successful hajj, which was due to start on January 10.

  There was less than two weeks to accomplish all the necessary preparations.

  SAUD AL-SHEIK STUDIED a stack of documents on his clipboard. There were still a thousand and one details, and the time of pilgrimage was quickly drawing near. His latest problem had just cropped up—the new prayer rugs he had ordered from England. They were not finished yet and the mill had just changed hands.

  That, combined with the fact that England was
not exactly held in esteem by his people because of the UK’s support of the United States in the occupation of Iraq, was creating a hassle. Al-Sheik wondered if a bribe to the mill was in order. He’d pay them extra to complete the order and then run them through a broker in Paris to disguise their country of origin.

  That would take care of both problems at once.

  Pleased with his idea, he took a sip of tea and reached for his cell phone to place the call.

  AT THAT MOMENT, the Greek cargo ship Larissa limped into the English Channel. The captain stared at his charts. He had been ordered to dock at the Isle of Sheppey, and he had never made port there before. His usual ports were Dover, Portsmouth and Felixstowe. What the captain had no way of knowing was that the British authorities had recently installed radiation detectors in his usual ports. By contrast, the Isle of Sheppey was as wide open as the Grand Canyon. And the people that had hired him knew this.

  The captain studied his chart, then made his course correction. Then he scratched the scab on his arm. The Larissa plowed along, with smoke from the aging diesel engine venting out the single stack. She was a dying ship carrying a deadly cargo.

  25

  DWYER GLANCED DOWN at the dry desert ground as the Sikorsky S-76 helicopter flew above northern Arizona. Miles away to his left, he could see a snowcapped range of peaks. The view of the snow-covered mountains surprised him. Like most people who had never visited the state, Dwyer had been under the impression that the land would be an endless stretch of sand and cacti. Arizona, it now appeared, had a little of everything.

  “How often does it snow here?” he asked the pilot through the headset.

  “Those peaks are over near Flagstaff,” the pilot said. “They receive enough to support a ski area. The tallest peak is Humphries—it’s over twelve thousand feet.”

  “This was not what I expected,” Dwyer admitted.

  “Most people,” the pilot said, “say the same thing.”

  The pilot had been a little reticent since first meeting Dwyer two hours ago in Phoenix. Dwyer couldn’t blame him—he was certain that the higher-ups in charge of Arizona’s homeland security had told the pilot nothing about Dwyer’s position or the purpose of the trip. Most people preferred to have at least a vague idea of their mission.