by James Ward
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Steck rose at one-thirty am, carefully packing for his day in the desert. He would dress in jeans and a long sleeve tee, rugged low shoes and wicking socks. He would carry a jacket against the cold desert night. In its pockets he stuffed some note paper, pens, a British passport, a miniature satphone registered to Continental Oil and business cards that identified him as a Geologist, all provided by Grundstrom. He had counseled Greg Liss to take the same garb and equipment.
He and Greg had prepared for the trip by careful study of the terrain and history of the area they would enter. This was really hostile territory in more ways than one. First, it was rugged mountainous scrub, dotted with old volcanoes and deep wadis with sheer rock-face walls. This moonscape led east to desert sand hundreds of miles wide. Secondly, it was now a hotbed of terrorist training camps and the domain of several groups with close ties to Al Qaeda. Bin Laden’s ancestors came from the Wadi Doan which was only a hundred miles or so from their destination Marib.
They would land in a small wadi cut into high hills west of Marib, in the region that once held the grandeur of the Kingdom of Sabba, known as Sheba in the Bible. Marib had been the center of the frankincense trade at the time of the Queen of Sheba. It was one of the most important crossroads for trade between the Middle East and the Orient. Spices and silk came west from India and Asia by camel, to trade for gold and fine linens from the west, along with the locally produced frankincense. The whole system was enabled by the Marib dam, an earthen structure built in fifteen-hundred B.C. that provided irrigation for vast forests of gum obligatum trees, the source of frankincense.
By the sixth century A.D., when The hand of Mohammed would have been cast, the dam was in ruins and the desert sand had reclaimed the forest. No gum trees remained. Not far from the area, Mohammed had preached his new religion, one that would conquer most of the civilized world within only a hundred years.
Economic systems die slowly. Although only a scant vestige of the era of Sheba, the camel caravans still stopped in Marib at the time of Mohammed. Important wells still remained here, thus many caravanserais, or stopovers still remained in the region through the middle ages. The remains of some still stand as monuments to the former glory of Sheba. Doctor William Wigglesworth was digging around a site that held the mostly buried ruins of one such trading post, seventy miles east of Marib, in the desert.
At two-fifty am, Bob collected Greg Liss and they stepped outside the lobby into cold night air. As they donned their jackets, a crew cab pickup with the Continental Oil logo on the door rolled to a stop at the curb. From behind the wheel, Grundstrom hailed them. The two men climbed into the back passenger compartment. “Good morning, guys,” Grundstrom said as though they were old friends, “there’s coffee in the locker.”
Steck opened the compartment in the back of the front seat and found two coffees and some flat bread. Before the coffee was finished, the truck rolled out onto the tarmac of a small airport and stopped beside a Learjet that already had engines running. The three of them ducked into the cabin and settled into wide seats. Grundstrom closed the door and the pilot began his taxi run. Within two minutes, they were airborne, climbing rapidly above the lights of the city, then veering south east.
As they flew this first leg of their journey towards Najran a small town near the Yemeni border, Steck made small talk with Grundstrom and studied him carefully. He learned that his host had served two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan.
“Tough duty,” Steck remarked when he learned that ground missions near Kandahar had convinced Grundstrom not to re-enlist.
“Real tough,” answered Grundstrom, “especially when you are ordered by morons to do the impossible with no resources. Here, it’s different. I get what I need to do my job and the money’s better.”
Steck got the picture. He decided to leave it at that for the moment. Guys like this are easy recruits for nuts like Randy Pullin, he thought.
The six-hundred mile flight to Najran went by quickly. The jet landed at five am, just as dawn’s first light began to displace the black desert night. The airstrip was only about as wide as the Learjet, which promptly wheeled around and took off, leaving the three men standing on scrub sand. There were no buildings, just a couple of Continental Oil vans parked beside the strip. After a quick transfer to a business helicopter with the same company logo on the door, they were airborne again. This time the pilot had a companion, a squat young fellow with a round baby face and an AK-47 across his lap. Greg’s eyes widened at the sight of the assault rifle. Steck’s glare stopped Liss from saying anything. Steck noticed that there was a locker marked Lifevests behind the cabin seats that by its size was probably full of light arms and ammo. He noticed that Grundstrom had retrieved a sidearm from his flight bag and was now wearing it.
The helicopter flew low, nearly following the nap of the earth, military style. Bob wondered if the craft had a military navigation system on board. If it didn’t, he thought, this pilot’s a magician.
As the one hundred-seventy mile trip to Marib was nearly complete, Grundstrom asked Bob and Greg if they wanted hand weapons “in case of snakes.” Both accepted. Grundstrom opened the locker that Steck had spotted earlier and removed two Beretta 92FS side arms with belt holsters and three loaded fifteen round clips for each.
“You guys know how to use these?” Grunstrom queried.
“Affirmative,” Steck answered. He exchanged looks with Greg, who held two thumbs up.
“Must be a lot of snakes in this place.” asserted Greg with a grin.
“You get more respect from the locals with one of these on your belt,” offered Grundstrom.
The helicopter flew low and fast over the Marib dam and slipped along a riverbed, turning right at the entrance to a small wadi. As the pilot eased the machine down, the ruins of a caravanserai appeared to the left. Steck could make out a campsite with several tents at one side of the ruins. About a dozen people were milling around the camp, while several Arabs worked a dig of moderate size.
The engines whined as if emitting a long sigh as the rotors slowed to idle. The pilot did not shut the engines down, but gave a wave to Grundstrom when the rotor wash had sunk to a safe level. He and baby face stayed in the helo while the three passengers covered their faces with the sleeves of their jackets against the dust and scampered clear of the rotors. They were met by a slender young woman in jeans, calf-high leather boots and a tee shirt. She was tall, red headed and quite attractive, with high cheek bones and angular features. She reminded Steck of a character from a Range Rover commercial. She looked strangely familiar to Greg.
“Are you Mister Liss?” she queried. Greg stepped forward and smiled, offering his hand. She dismissed his proffered hand with a wave, and turned toward the largest of the tents. The three men followed her inside.
Ten minutes later, Grundstrom emerged from the tent and waved to the helo pilot. Receiving the “all clear” the pilot shut down the engines.
Inside, the tent was cleared of all the workers and archaeological team. Doctor Wigglesworth insisted that the girl stay in the room. Steck resisted on impulse, questioning her need to know. Greg Liss was still troubled by the impression that he had met her before. “Professor, please ask the lady to wait outside,” he said to Wigglesworth.
“Mister Liss,” stated Wigglesworth emphatically, “there will be no discussion if she is not by my side. I trust her completely.” Wigglesworth introduced her as Nancy Kinnear, a grad student at Dartmouth. Steck reckoned her to be Wigglesworth’s protégé. Greg reasoned to himself that he probably remembered her from Dartmouth. He decided not to raise his concern to Steck. Nancy gave Steck a cold stare then stood at Wigglesworth’s side.
Steck motioned to Grundstrom to go outside. He complied, but stayed at the door of the tent as if guarding the place. The meeting now consisted of Wigglesworth, his protégé, Liss and Steck.
Greg and Wigglesworth began debriefing about The Hand of Mohammed. Greg’s electron
ic recorder was running, to be used for documenting later by the FBI. Steck listened intently as each of the facts Greg had asserted to the Jump Team was confirmed. While this was in progress, the girl served weak tea in small tumblers, along with some jellied candies covered with sesame seeds. She seemed bored with the conversation, probably having heard it all too many times before. When Greg produced a photo of the object, both her face and that of Doctor Wigglesworth froze in astonishment.
“By God, you were right!” exclaimed Wigglesworth after recovering from the initial shock. He sat at the table and fondled the photo, mumbling to himself about various features of ‘the hand’ while nodding affirmatively.
Nancy knelt at her mentor’s side, staring at the photo. Steck made a mental note about the intensity of her gaze, the flush on her cheek and the tiny drop of drool she wiped from the corner of her mouth. Her demeanor went beyond satisfaction on behalf of her mentor, he thought.
The doctor launched into a sort of lecture about the significance of the object, noting that confirmation of its existence had been his life’s work. He spoke about the legend of The Hand of Mohammed, and the bitter wars that had been fought through the ages over possession of the thing.
“Why fight wars over a simple figurine with only historical significance?” asked Steck.
“Because according to Islamic law, he who possesses it gains free passage anywhere in the Muslim world, forgiveness of any offenses at law and influence with the supreme leaders in matters of Islamic law,” answered Wigglesworth.
Steck’s mind fuddled for a moment, trying to take in the implications of the professor’s statement. “So, any bad guy that gets hold of the thing is the next Bin Ladin.”
“Vastly more powerful than Bin Laden, the old man said.” Wigglesworth looked self-satisfied at having delivered the message, not seeming to grasp the implications. Steck felt his stomach churn.
Greg and Wigglesworth went to an easel and began sketching a timeline that showed the major historical events surrounding The Hand. Steck was fascinated at the Doctor’s knowledge as well as Greg’s contributions to the effort. As each sheet of paper became full of scribble and diagram, Liss shot an image with his digital camera then turned the page.
Of a sudden, Steck sensed movement behind him and turned towards the table, where Nancy was just snapping a picture of Greg’s photo. “Hey! Stop that!” he shouted. Greg and Wigglesworth looked up, startled at the interruption of an interesting conversation. Grundstrom, hearing the commotion threw the tent door open and stood in its frame, sidearm drawn.
Steck held Nancy firmly by her right wrist. “Give me the camera!” he said firmly. She resisted. He flipped her right arm behind her back and applied pressure.
“You’re hurting me!” she whined, trying to break the arm lock. She held the small Casio away from them.
“Let her go!” shouted Wigglesworth, striding toward them.
“Not until she gives me that camera,” Steck replied.
Greg’s training snapped in and he quickly relieved her of the camera. Wigglesworth seemed ready to get physical, but perhaps remembering his age thought better of it. Bob kept his grip on the girl’s arm while Greg looked at the review screen of the digital camera, finding two images of his photo of The Hand.
Greg deleted the two photos, opened the camera, removed the memory card and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He frowned at the Girl. “Nancy, please don’t do that.”
Steck did not release his hold on her arm. “Why did you take that picture?” he said.
“Relax, Mister Steck,” interrupted Wigglesworth. Seething, his neck had turned red. “It is standard operating procedure for archaeologists to document every shred of information. I am sure Nancy was just following her training, nothing more.”
“Is that true, Nancy?” asked Steck taking a sardonic tone.
“Just let me go!” she growled.
Steck released his grip. Nancy spun around, giving Steck a defiant glare. She started for the door. Grundstrom blocked her.
“Put that gun away!” ordered Wigglesworth, “and stop this foolishness right now.”
“Or what?” answered Grundstrom, holding a bead on Nancy.
“Or this meeting is over,” stated Wigglesworth. He flashed a look of disdain at Greg Liss, who gestured frustration to his former professor.
Steck decided to let the incident go for now, and motioned Grundstrom to stand aside.
“I’ll be in my tent.” Nancy spat the words, marching out onto the desert sand.
Liss and the professor resumed their debriefing. Steck sat in attentive silence, while the two completed the timeline chart. They continued with a detailed discussion of each point on the timeline. Much new information came forth, including corroboration of the “safe passage” provision of “The hand of Mohammed.” It was shown in an old volume that Wigglesworth produced about the Sinai desert in Egypt. In it, an historical account of Saint Catherine’s Monastery at the foot of Mount Sinai showed the picture of a hand print. In order to stem the constant attacks by Moslems against the Christian monastery, the monks had allowed the building of a small mosque within the monastery walls. Mohammed himself had approved of this move, sending a letter to the monastery marked with his hand print. The monks thus armed any siege of St Catherine’s by ambitious Moslem war lords could be diffused by showing the letter and image of the hand of their prophet to the would-be occupiers. Since that time, in the seventh century, St Catherine’s has never been attacked. In return, the Christian monks to this day offer hospitality to any Moslem who wishes to worship at the small mosque.
“You may remember, Mister Steck, the visit to that monastery by Anwhar Sadat, during the Israeli occupation of Sinai that ended in 1980,” remarked Doctor Wigglesworth. Steck realized that remark was aimed at his apparent age, in contrast to Greg’s. “Sadat was only exercising his ancient right to safe passage, thereby also convincing the world of the monastery’s ‘vouchsafe’ under the resumption of Egyptian rule.”
By the end of the briefing, cordiality seemed to have been restored. Lunch had been served by an older Arab man, who delivered traditional middle-eastern food with much bowing and smiling, the gleam of his gold teeth accompanying each smile. Nancy had not returned. Steck checked with Grundstrom, who said he had not seen her leave her tent since the camera incident.
It was now late in the day, and despite Doctor Wigglesworth’s insistence that they stay the night Steck was anxious to get going. They had the information needed and he wanted to report to the JUMP team. Steck thanked Wigglesworth with a hearty handshake and promised a generous contribution to his Archaeological foundation, courtesy of the American people.
Long shadows crept across the camp, cast by the rock walls of the wadi that encompassed the dig site. Steck and Liss emerged from the main tent. Bob reckoned it was about one hour to sunset. He spoke briefly to Grundstrom, who waved to the helo pilot and the baby faced guard that they would be leaving.
Steck jogged over to Nancy’s tent, to say good-bye and hopefully mend her disposition. Greg trotted behind. Steck hailed her twice. Receiving no reply, he tossed the flap of the tent aside. She was gone.
Steck tensed, casting a look toward Grundstrom, who reacted at once to his view of the empty tent. They needed no further communication. Grundstrom whistled to the pilot, who was lazily going through his pre-flight checks. The pilot looked up to see Grundstrom waving his arm in a circular motion. That meant “hurry up, let’s get out of here.”
Steck shouted to Greg Liss and the two began trotting toward the ‘copter. Nancy’s absence, under the circumstances could only mean trouble.
“Bob, Look above us!” Greg squawked as they ran, “Up on the ridge!”
About twenty heavily armed men were picking their way down the rocky western slope from the ridge, using the glare of the late day sun for cover.
Steck saw ‘baby face’ standing beside the helicopter with binoculars to his face. He had spotted them too. “Un
friendlies!” he shouted above the engine noise, loud enough so that Steck and Liss could hear him. Professor Wigglesworth just stood in front of the main tent, bewildered.
Grundstrom had already taken up a position behind a large boulder about ten yards from the helicopter. Baby face tossed him an M40 sniper rifle from the aft locker in the helo. Grundstrom waited until Steck and Liss were near similar cover, then carefully sighted and pulled off two shots. Two of the invaders dropped, one careening about ten yards across the face of the wall as if hit by a truck, the other slumping over a large rock, part of his head blown away.
Even though they were still out of their weapons’ effective range, several of the enemy began spraying bullets from their AK’s. Most fell about seventy yards short.
Using their temporary range advantage Steck chose not to take cover, but kept running toward the helo. Liss followed. “No use using these Berettas,” he hollered to Greg. Greg holstered his. As they got to the helo, Steck shouted to baby face. “Hey, have you got any more rifles? The whine of the rotor slowly winding up to speed drowned out the man’s response.
Grundstrom fired again, a direct hit. Three bad guys down. So far, so good, thought Steck.
Steck counted the enemy twice. Thus verified, he signaled to Grundstrom, holding up first a single finger then seven. There were seventeen still moving.
Grundstrom gave him a thumbs-up. A moment later his M40 barked again and another man fell down the draw.
Baby face had retrieved two AK’s from the locker. He tossed them to Steck and Liss then shouted, “Don’t fire until they’re closer! You’ll waste ammo.” He then retreated to the helicopter and scurried under the airframe, dropping an access panel to the ground. He stood up, shouted something to the pilot, then retrieved his AK and took up a position near the aircraft.