SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  Omaha called out, “How do you know that? Why are you so sure? They could be taking her anywhere…for ransom, to sell the artifact. Who the hell knows where?”

  “I know,” Painter said coolly. He let silence stretch before speaking again. “This was no random raiding party that attacked us. They were focused, purposeful in their assault. They whisked in and grabbed Safia and the iron heart. They knew what they were going after and who knew the most about it.”

  “Why?” asked Kara, clipping some outburst from Omaha with a thrust of an arm. “What do they want?”

  Painter stepped forward. “What we wanted. Some clue to the true location of the lost city of Ubar.”

  Omaha swore under his breath. The others simply stared.

  Kara shook her head. “You haven’t answered my question.” Her tone darkened. “ What do they want? What do they seek to gain by finding Ubar?”

  Painter licked his lips.

  “This is bullshit!” Omaha growled. He shoved past Kara, fast.

  Painter stood his ground, holding Coral back with a hand signal. He would not be punched again.

  Omaha lifted his arm. Metal glinted in the meager light. A pistol pointed at Painter’s head. “You’ve been yanking our chains long enough. Answer the woman’s question. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Omaha,” Kara warned, but there was not much energy in her voice.

  Coral sidled to the side, positioning to go for Omaha’s flank. Painter again signaled her to hold.

  Omaha punched the gun at him harder. “Answer me! What goddamn game is going on here? Who do you really work for?”

  Painter had no choice but to come clean. He needed the group’s cooperation. If there was to be any hope of stopping Cassandra, of rescuing Safia, he would need their help. He couldn’t do it with Coral alone.

  “I work for the U.S. Department of Defense,” he finally admitted. “Specifically DARPA. The research-and-development arm of the DOD.”

  Omaha shook his head. “Fucking great. The military? What does any of this have to do with them? We’re an archaeological expedition.”

  Kara answered before Painter could. “The explosion at the museum.”

  Omaha glanced at her, then back at Painter.

  He nodded. “She’s right. It was no ordinary blast. Residual radiation pointed to an extraordinary possibility.” All eyes were on him, except Coral, who still had her full attention on Omaha and the gun. “There is a high probability that the exploded meteorite contained some form of antimatter.”

  Omaha let out an explosive sound of derision, as if he had been holding it all along. “ Antimatter …what a load of bullshit! Who do you take us for?”

  Coral spoke at his side, matter-of-fact, professional. “Dr. Dunn, he is telling you the truth. We tested the blast zone ourselves, detecting Z-bozons and gluons, decay particles from an antimatter/matter interaction.”

  Omaha frowned, less sure.

  “I know it sounds preposterous,” Painter said. “But if you’ll lower your gun, I’ll explain.”

  Omaha steadied the pistol instead. “So far this is all that’s kept you talking.”

  Painter sighed. It was worth the try. “Have it your way, then.”

  With the gun pointed at his face, he gave a brief overview: of the Tunguska explosion in Russia in 1908, of the unique gamma radiation found both there and at the British Museum, of the plasma characteristics of the explosion, and how evidence hinted that somewhere out in the deserts of Oman lay a possible source of antimatter, preserved in some unknown fashion to make it stable and unreactive while in the presence of matter.

  “Though now it may be destabilizing,” Painter finished. “That may be why the meteor exploded at the museum. And it may happen here, too. Time is critical. Now may be the only time we can discover and preserve this source of unlimited power.”

  Kara frowned. “And what does the United States government plan on doing with such a limitless source of power?”

  Painter read the suspicion in her eyes. “Safeguard it for now. That’s the immediate and primary goal. To protect it from those who would abuse it. If this power should fall into the wrong hands…”

  Silence lingered as his words died away. They all knew borders no longer divided the world so much as ideologies. Though it was undeclared, there was a new world war being waged, where fundamental decency and respect for human rights were under assault by forces of intolerance, despotism, and blind fervor. And while its battles were sometimes waged in plain sight-in New York City, in Iraq-its greater struggle was carried on invisibly, fought in secret, its heroes unknown, its villains hidden.

  Willing or not, the group assembled here on the beach had been drafted into this war.

  Kara finally spoke. “And this other group. Safia’s kidnappers. They’re the same ones who broke into the British Museum.”

  Painter nodded. “I believe so.”

  “Who are they?” Omaha still held the pistol at him.

  “I don’t know…not for sure.”

  “Bullshit!”

  Painter held up a hand. “All I know for certain is who leads the team. A partner I once worked with, a mole planted in DARPA.” He was too exhausted to hide his anger. “Her name is Cassandra Sanchez. I never discovered who she worked for. A foreign power. Terrorists. A black-market group. All I know is that they are well funded, organized, and cold-blooded in their methods.”

  Omaha scoffed, “And you and your partner are the warm, fuzzy types.”

  “We don’t kill innocent people.”

  “No, you’re fucking worse !” he spat. “You let others do your dirty work. You knew we were walking into a possible shitstorm but kept your mouths closed. If we had known before now, we might’ve been better prepared. We might have stopped Safia’s abduction.”

  Painter had no comeback. The man was right. He’d been caught off guard, jeopardizing the mission and their lives.

  Distracted by his own guilt, he failed to respond in time. Omaha lunged and pressed the pistol’s barrel against his forehead, knocking him back a step. “You bastard…this is all your fault!”

  He heard the pain and anguish in Omaha’s voice. The man was beyond reason. Anger built in Painter’s chest. He was cold, sore, and tired of having a gun waved in his face. He didn’t know if he’d have to take Omaha out.

  Coral waited, tense.

  Support came from an unlikely source.

  A thunder of hooves suddenly broke across the beach. All eyes turned, even Omaha. He stepped back and finally lowered the gun.

  “Goddamn…” he muttered.

  Across the sand, an amazing sight galloped. A white stallion, mane flying, hooves casting up gouts of sand. It was the horse from the Shabab Oman.

  The stallion raced toward them, perhaps drawn by their raised voices. It must have swum to shore after the explosion. It slammed to a stop a few yards from them, huffing white into the cool night air, heated. It tossed its head.

  “I can’t believe it got away,” Omaha said.

  “Horses are excellent swimmers,” Kara scolded, but she couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.

  One of the Desert Phantoms slowly approached the horse, palm out, whispering in Arabic. It shivered but allowed the approach. Exhausted, frightened, needing reassurance.

  The sudden arrival of the horse cut the tension. Omaha stared down at his gun as if unsure how it had gotten into his fist.

  Kara stepped forward and faced Painter. “I think it’s time we stopped arguing. Casting blame. We all had our reasons for coming out here. Hidden agendas.” She glanced back to Omaha, who would not meet her eye. Painter could guess the man’s agenda. It was plain from the way he’d been looking at Safia, his furious anger a moment ago. He was still in love.

  “From here,” Kara continued, “we must figure out what we’re going to do to save Safia. That’s the priority.” She turned to Painter. “What do we do?”

  Painter nodded. His left eye ached with the motion. �
�The others think we’re dead. That gives us an advantage we’d best keep. We also know where they’re heading. We have to reach Salalah as quickly as possible. That means crossing almost three hundred miles.”

  Kara stared toward the lights of the distant village. “If I could reach a phone, I’m sure I could get the sultan to-”

  “No,” he cut her off. “No one must know we’re alive. Not even the Omani government. Any word, anywhere, that we’re still alive jeopardizes our thin advantage. Cassandra’s group managed to abduct Safia through their advantage of surprise. We can win her back the same way.”

  “But with the sultan’s help, Salalah could be locked down and searched.”

  “Cassandra’s group has already proven too damn resourceful. They’ve brought in significant manpower and weapons. That couldn’t have happened without resources in the government.”

  “And if we come out of hiding, word would reach the kidnappers,” Omaha mumbled. He had holstered the pistol in his waistband and rubbed his knuckles. His angry outburst seemed to have steadied the man. “The kidnappers would be gone before any action could be taken. We’d lose Safia.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then what do we do?” Kara asked.

  “We find transportation.”

  Captain al-Haffi stepped forward. Painter was unsure how the man would feel about deceiving his own government, keeping them in the dark, but then again, when out in the field, the Desert Phantoms acted with full independence. He nodded to Painter. “I’ll send one of my men over to the village. They won’t arouse suspicion.”

  The captain must have read something in Painter’s face, some question about why he was so readily helping the team. “They killed one of my men. Kalil. He was my wife’s cousin.”

  Painter nodded with sympathy. “May Allah carry him home.” He knew there was no stronger loyalty than that to the members of one’s own tribe and family.

  With a half bow of thanks, Captain al-Haffi waved to the taller of his two men, a true giant of a man, named Barak. They spoke rapidly in Arabic. Barak nodded and began to step away.

  Kara stopped him. “How are you going to get a truck with no money?”

  Barak answered her in English, “Allah helps those who help themselves.”

  “You’re going to steal one?”

  “Borrow. It is tradition among our desert tribes. A man may borrow what he needs. Stealing is a crime.”

  With this little bit of wisdom, the man headed out toward the distant lights at a steady jog, disappearing into the night like a true phantom.

  “Barak will not fail us,” Captain al-Haffi assured them. “He will find a vehicle large enough to carry all of us…and the horse.”

  Painter glanced back along the rocky shore. The remaining Phantom, a taciturn young man named Sharif, led the stallion with a length of towline.

  “Why bring the horse?” Painter asked, concerned about the exposure of a large vehicle. “There’s good grazing here, and someone would find it.”

  Captain al-Haffi answered, “We have little money. And the horse may be bartered, sold. Used as transportation if needed. It is also a cover for us to be traveling to Salalah. The horse farms there are well known. It will lessen suspicion if we bring the stallion along on our journey. And besides, white is good luck.” This last was said with deadly seriousness. Luck among the folks of Arabia was as important as a roof over one’s head.

  They made a brief camp. While Omaha and Painter beached the launch behind some rocks to hide it, the others built a fire out of drift-wood, sheltering it within the lee of a tumbled section of cliff. Hidden, the tiny pyre would be hard to spot, and they all needed its warmth and light.

  Forty minutes later, the grinding of gears announced the arrival of their transportation. Headlights rounded a bend in the coastal road. A flatbed truck rolled up. It was an old International 4900, painted yellow, scarred with rust. Its bed was framed in wooden fencing with a drop gate behind.

  Barak hopped out.

  “I see you found something to borrow, ” Kara said.

  He shrugged.

  They put out the fire. Barak had also managed to borrow some clothes: robes and cloaks. They quickly dressed, concealing their Western wear.

  Once ready, Captain al-Haffi and his men took the truck’s cab, in case they were stopped. The others clambered into the back. It took blind-folding the horse to get it to walk up the drop gate into the flatbed. They tied the Arabian near the front cab. Then Painter and the others huddled near the back.

  As the truck bounced onto the coastal road, Painter studied the stallion. White is good luck. Painter hoped so…they would need every bit of it.

  Part Three

  Tombs

  11

  Marooned

  DECEMBER 3, 12:22 P.M.

  SALALAH

  SAFIA WOKEin a cell, disoriented and nauseated. The dark room spun and jittered as she moved her head. A groan bubbled up from her core. A high barred window let in stabbing shafts of light. Too bright, searing.

  A wave of queasiness rolled over her.

  She turned on her side and dragged her head, too heavy for her shoulders, over the edge of the cot. Her stomach clenched, then clenched again. Nothing. Still, she tasted bile as she collapsed back down.

  She took deep breaths, and slowly the walls stopped their spin.

  She became aware of the sweat covering her body, pasting the thin cotton shift to her legs and chest. The heat stifled. Her lips felt cracked, parched. How long had she been drugged? She remembered the man with the needle. Cold, tall, dressed in black. He had forced her to change out of her wet clothes aboard the boat and into the khaki shift.

  Carefully, Safia stared around her. The room was stone walls, plank flooring. It stank of fried onions and dirty feet. The cot was the only furnishing. A single door of stout oak stood closed. No doubt locked.

  She lay unmoving for several more minutes. Her mind floated, half deadened by the aftereffects of the drug they had given her. Still, deep inside her, panic coiled around her heart. She was alone, captured. The others dead. She pictured flames in the night, reflecting off storm-swept water. The memory had burned into her like a camera flash in the dark. All red, painful, too bright to blink away. Her breathing tightened, throat closed down. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. If she started, she would never stop.

  Finally, she pushed up and rolled her feet to the floor. It was not with any determination beyond the heavy pressure in her bladder. Biological need, a reminder that she lived. She stood, unsteady, a hand against the wall. The stones were welcoming cool.

  She stared up at the barred window. From the heat, the angle of the sun, it had to be close to midday. But which day? Where was she? She smelled the sea and the sand. Still in Arabia, she was sure. She crossed the room. The burning in her bladder sharpened.

  She hobbled to the door, lifted an arm. Would they merely drug her again? She fingered the purple bruise at the angle of her left arm, where the needle had dug in. She had no choice. Need outweighed caution. She pounded on the door and called out hoarsely, “Hello! Can anyone hear me?” She repeated her words in Arabic.

  No one answered.

  She knocked harder, stinging her knuckles, an ache flaring between her shoulder blades. She was weak, dehydrated. Had they left her here to die?

  Finally, footsteps responded. A heavy bar scraped against wood. The door swung open. She found herself facing the same man as before. He stood a half a foot taller than she, looming in a black shirt and scuffed, faded jeans. She was surprised to find his head shaved. She didn’t remember that. No, he had been wearing a black cap then. The only hair on his head were his dark eyebrows and a small tuft at his chin. But she did not forget those eyes, blue and cold, unreadable, passionless. A shark’s eyes.

  She shivered as he stared at her, the heat suddenly gone from the room.

  “You’re up,” he said. “Come with me.”

  She heard a trace of an Aussie accent, but one
blunted by years away from home. “Where…I have to use the lavatory.”

  He frowned at her and strode away. “Follow me.”

  He led her to a small hall bath. It had a squat toilet, curtainless shower, and a small stained washbasin with a leaking tap. Safia ducked inside. She reached a hand to the door, unsure if she would be allowed privacy.

  “Don’t be long,” he said, pulling the door the rest of the way shut.

  Alone, she searched the room for some weapon, some means of escape. Again the lone window was barred. But she could at least see out of this one. She hurried forward and stared out at the small township below, nestled against the sea. Palm trees and white buildings spread between her and the water. Off to the left, a flutter of rainbow-colored tarps and awnings marked off a market souk. And in the distance, green patches beyond the city defined banana, coconut, sugarcane, and papaya plantations.

  She knew this place.

  The Garden City of Oman.

  Salalah.

  It was the capital city of the Dhofar Province, the original destination of the Shabab Oman. It was a lush region, green, with waterfalls and rivers feeding the pastures. Only in this section of Oman did the monsoon winds bless the land with sweeps of rain, a regular light drizzle, and an almost continual mist over the nearby coastal mountains. It was a weather system like no other in the Gulf, one that allowed for the growth of the rare frankincense tree, a source of great wealth in ancient times. The riches here had led to the founding of the legendary cities of Sumharam, Al-Balid, and lastly, the lost city of Ubar.

  Why had her kidnappers taken her here?

  She crossed to the toilet and quickly relieved herself. Afterward she washed her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She appeared a shadow of herself, gaunt, tense, hollow-eyed.

  But she was alive.

  A knock on the door. “ ’Bout done in there?”

  With no other recourse, Safia stepped back to the door and opened it.