SANDSTORM sf-1

by James Rollins

  9:45 A.M.

  CASSANDRA CLUTCHEDher laptop as the M4 high-speed tractor mashed over another small dune. The transport vehicle looked like a brown Winnebago balanced on a pair of tank treads, and despite its eighteen-ton weight, it chewed across the landscape with the efficiency of a BMW down the Autobahn.

  She kept the pace reasonable, respecting the terrain and weather. Visibility was poor, only yards ahead. Windblown sand flumed all around, whipping off the tops of dunes in vast sails. The sky had darkened, cloudless, the sun no more than a wan moon above. She dared not risk bogging down the tractor. They’d never drag it free. So they proceeded with sensible caution.

  Behind her the other five all-terrain trucks traveled in the tracks of the larger tractor as it blazed a trail through the desert. In the rear were the flatbeds with the cradled VTOL copters.

  She glanced to the clock in the corner of the laptop’s screen. While it had taken a full fifteen minutes to get the caravan moving, they were now making good time. They’d reach Shisur in another twenty minutes.

  Still, she kept an eye on the screen. Two display windows were open on it. One was a real-time feed from an NOAA satellite that tracked the path of the sandstorm. She had no doubt they’d reach the shelter of the oasis before the full storm struck, but just barely. And of even greater concern, the coastal high-pressure system was on the move inland, due to collide with this desert storm in the next few hours. It would be hell out here for a while.

  The other screen on the monitor displayed another map of the area, a topographic schematic of this corner of the desert. It diagrammed every building and structure in Shisur, including the ruins. A small blue spinning ring, the size of a pencil eraser, glowed at the center of the ruins.

  Dr. Safia al-Maaz.

  Cassandra stared at the blue glow. What are you up to? The woman had led her off course, away from the prize. She thought to steal it out from under Cassandra’s nose, using the cover of the storm. Smart girl. But intelligence carried you only so far. Strength of arm was just as important. Sigma had taught her that, pairing brawn and brain. The sum of all men. Sigma’s motto.

  Cassandra would teach that lesson to Dr. al-Maaz.

  You may be smart, but I have the strength.

  She glanced to the side mirror, to the trail of military vehicles. Inside, one hundred men armed with the latest in military and Guild hardware. Directly behind, in the tractor’s transport bed, John Kane sat with his men. Rifles bristled as they performed the deadly sacrament of a final weapons inspection. They were the best of the best, her Praetorian guards.

  Cassandra stared ahead as the tractor ground its way inevitably forward. She attempted to pierce the gloom and windswept landscape.

  Dr. al-Maaz might discover the treasure out there.

  But in the end, Cassandra would take it.

  She glanced back to the laptop’s screen. The storm ate away the map of the region, consuming all in its path. On the other display window, the schematic of the town and ruins glowed in the dim cabin.

  Cassandra suddenly tensed. The blue ring had vanished from the map.

  Dr. al-Maaz was gone.

  9:53 A.M.

  SAFIA HUNGfrom the caving ladder. She stared up at Painter above. His flashlight blinded her. She flashed on the moment in the museum when she hung from the glass roof and he was below her, encouraging her to wait for security. Only now their roles were reversed. He was on top; she was below. Yet once again, she was the one hanging above a drop.

  “Just a few more steps,” he said, his scarf whipping about his neck.

  She glanced to Omaha below. He held the ladder steady. “I got you.”

  Bits of crumbling frankincense cascaded around her. Boulders of it lay around Omaha’s feet, and the air in the subterranean chamber was redolent with its aroma. It had taken only a few minutes with pickaxes to perforate into the conical-shaped cave.

  Once they had broken through, Omaha had lowered a candle into the cave, both to check for bad air and to light the interior. He then went down the collapsible ladder, inspecting the chamber himself. Only when he was satisfied did he let Safia climb down. With her injured shoulder, she had to loosen her left arm from her sling and carry most of her weight with her right.

  She struggled the rest of the way down. Omaha’s hand found her waist, and she leaned into his grip gratefully. He helped her to the floor.

  “I’m all right,” she said when he kept a hand on her elbow.

  He lowered his hand.

  It was much quieter out of the wind, making her feel slightly deaf.

  Already Painter had mounted the ladder, coming down, moving swiftly. Soon three flashlights shone across the walls.

  “It’s like being inside a pyramid,” Painter said.

  Safia nodded. Three rough walls tilted up to the hole at the top.

  Omaha knelt on the floor, running his fingers across the ground.

  “Sandstone,” Safia said. “All three walls and floor.”

  “Is that significant?” Painter asked.

  “This is not natural. The walls and floor are hewn slabs of sandstone. This is a man-made structure. Built atop bedrock of limestone, I imagine. Then sand was poured around the outside. Once it was covered, they plugged the hole at the top and covered it with more loose sand.”

  Omaha stared up. “And to make sure no one found it by accident, they dropped the sinkhole atop it, frightening everyone away with ghost stories.”

  “But why do all that?” Painter asked. “What’s this supposed to be?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Omaha grinned at him, looking suddenly striking to Safia. His goggles lay draped under his chin, his scarf and hood thrown back. He had not shaved in a couple of days, leaving a bronzed stubble over cheek and chin, his hair stuck up in odd places. She had forgotten how he looked in the field. Half wild, untamed. He was in his natural element, a lion on the veldt.

  All that came to her with only the flash of his grin.

  He loved all this-and once, she had, too. She had been as wild and uninhibited, his companion, lover, friend, colleague. Then Tel Aviv…

  “What’s obvious?” Painter asked.

  Omaha flung an arm. “This structure. You saw one of these today.”

  Painter frowned.

  Safia knew Omaha was teasing this out, not from malice, but simply from pure enjoyment and awe.

  “We banged into one of these-a much smaller one-as we descended out of the mountains.”

  Painter’s eyes widened, his gaze swept the space. “Those prayer stones.”

  “A trilith,” Omaha said. “We’re standing inside a giant trilith.”

  Safia suspected Omaha wanted to jump up and down, and truth be told, his excitement was contagious. She could not stand still herself. “We need to bring the keys down here.”

  “What about the storm?” Painter cautioned.

  “Screw the storm,” Omaha said. “You and the others can go and hide out in town. I’m staying here.” His eyes fell on Safia.

  She nodded. “We’ve good shelter here. If someone could lower the iron artifacts, water, a few supplies, let Omaha and me figure out what to do with them. We might have the riddle solved by the time the worst of the storm blows itself out. Otherwise, we’ll lose a whole day.”

  Painter sighed. “I should stay here, too.”

  Omaha waved him off. “Crowe, you’re not much use to us. To use your own words from earlier, this is my area of expertise. Guns, military ops…that’s you. Here, you’re simply taking up space.”

  Storm clouds built behind Painter’s blue eyes.

  Safia placed a conciliatory hand on the man’s arm. “Omaha’s right. We’ve got radios if we need anything. Someone has to make sure everyone stays safe when the storm hits.”

  With clear reluctance, Painter stepped to the ladder. His eyes lingered on her, glanced to Omaha, then away. He climbed up and called back. “Radio what you’ll need.” He then shooed everyone away, herding them back to
the shelter of the cinder-block homes.

  Safia suddenly became acutely aware of how alone she was with Omaha. What had seemed so natural a moment ago now seemed strange and uncomfortable, as if the air had suddenly soured in here. The chamber felt too cramped, claustrophobic. Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant idea.

  “Where do we start?” Omaha asked, his back to her.

  Safia lifted her arm back into her sling. “We look for clues.”

  She stepped away and shone her light up and down each wall. Each appeared to be the identical size and shape. The only mark was a small square hole cut halfway up one wall, perhaps a place to rest an oil lamp.

  Omaha lifted a metal detector from the floor.

  Safia waved him to put it down. “I doubt that’s going to-”

  As soon as he flipped on its power, the detector pinged. Omaha’s eyebrows rose. “Talk about beginner’s luck.”

  But as he swept the device over more of the floor, the detector continued its pinging, as if the metal lay everywhere. He lifted it to the sandstone walls. More pinging.

  “Okay,” Omaha conceded, dropping the detector, getting nowhere. “I’m beginning to really hate that old queen.”

  “She’s hidden a needle in a haystack.”

  “All this must have been too deep for the surface detectors. Time to go low-tech.” Omaha pulled free a notepad and pencil. With compass in hand, he began mapping out the trilith. “So what about those keys?”

  “What about them?”

  “If they’re from the time of Ubar’s downfall, how did they end up in a statue from 200B.C? Or at Job’s tomb? Ubar fell inA.D 300.”

  “Look around you,” Safia said. “They were skilled artisans in sandstone. They must have found those holy sites, balanced whatever energy source lies within these keys. Antimatter or whatever. And burrowed the artifacts into elements already at the tombs: the statue in Salalah, the prayer wall at Job’s tomb. Then they sealed them over again with sandstone with a skill that left their handiwork undetectable.”

  Omaha nodded, continuing his sketching.

  The bark of the radio startled them both. It was Painter. “Safia, I have the artifacts. I’ll be returning with water and a couple MRE rations. Anything else you need? The winds are becoming fierce.”

  She considered, staring at the walls around her, then realized something that might come in handy. She told him.

  “Roger that. I’ll bring it.”

  As she signed off, she found Omaha’s eyes on her. He glanced too quickly to his notepad.

  “Here’s the best I could sketch,” he mumbled, and showed her his diagram.

  “Any thoughts?” she asked.

  “Well, traditionally the three stones of the trilith represent the celestial trinity. Sada, Hird, and Haba. ”

  “The moon, the sun, and the morning star,” Safia said, naming them as they were known today. “A trinity revered by the early religions of the region. Again the queen was showing no preferential treatment between the faiths.”

  “But which stone slab represents which celestial body?” Omaha asked.

  She nodded. “Where to begin?”

  “In the morning, I’d say? The morning star appears at dawn in the southeast sky.” Omaha patted the appropriate wall. “So that seems obvious enough.”

  “Which leaves us two other walls,” Safia said, taking over. “Now the northern wall is aligned along the east-west axis, straight as an arrow.”

  “The path the sun takes across the sky.”

  Safia brightened. “Even that little hollow square in the north wall could represent a window, to let sunlight inside.”

  “Then that leaves this last wall to be the moon.” Omaha stepped to the southwest wall. “I don’t know why this one represents the moon, but Sada was the predominant deity to the desert tribes of Arabia. So it must be significant.”

  Safia nodded. In most cultures, the sun was the major divinity, paramount, life-giving, warming. But in the searing deserts, it was deadly, merciless, unforgiving. So instead, the moon, Sada, was most worshiped for its cooling touch. The moon was the bringer of rain, represented by the bull with its crescent-shaped horns. Each quarter phase of the moon was named Il or Ilah, which over the years came to be known as a term for God. In Hebrew, El or Elohim. In Arabic, Allah.

  The moon was paramount.

  “Still, the wall appears blank,” Omaha said.

  Safia neared him. “There must be something.” She joined the search. The surface was rough, pocked in places.

  A crunch of sand announced Painter’s arrival.

  Omaha climbed halfway up the ladder and passed supplies to Safia below.

  “How’re things going in there?” Painter called as he lowered a plastic gallon of water.

  “Slow,” Safia said.

  “But we’re making progress,” Omaha interjected.

  Painter leaned into the wind. Unburdened as he was, it looked like the next strong gust might kite him away. Omaha climbed back down. Skitters of windblown sand followed him.

  “You’d better get back to the shelter,” Safia called up, worried for Painter’s safety.

  He gave her a salute and pushed away into the sandy gale.

  “Now where were we?” Omaha asked.

  10:18 A.M.

  OUT OFthe sinkhole, Painter fought through the storm. An eerie night had fallen. Dust covered the sun, casting the world in crimson. Visibility shut down to mere feet in front of his face. He had his night-vision goggles fixed in place, but even they gained only another yard of sightline. He barely saw the gates as he hunched through them.

  Among the village buildings, sand flowed underfoot with the winds, as if he were walking along a streambed. His clothes spat with static electricity. He tasted it in the air. His mouth felt chalky, his lips brittle and dry.

  Finally, he ducked around into the lee of their shelter. Out of the direct teeth of the storm, he felt capable of taking full breaths. Sand flumed in wild eddies, streaming over the roofline. He walked with one hand along the cinder-block wall.

  Feet in front of him, a figure folded out of the swirls of darkness, a ghost taking form. A ghost with a rifle. It was one of the Rahim scouts, on guard. He hadn’t seen her until he was on top of her. He nodded to her as he passed. No acknowledgment. He marched by her to the doorway.

  Stopping, he glanced back. She was gone again, vanished.

  Was it just the storm, or was it a part of her ability to blend into the background, to cloud perception? Painter stood in front of the door. He had heard the story from Safia, but it seemed too wild to believe. As a demonstration of their mental abilities, the hodja had placed a pale green scorpion on the floor and made it do figure eights in the dust, over and over again, seeming to control it. Was it some trick? Like snake charming?

  As he reached to the knob, the winds took a slightly different keen. The roar had grown so constant that he barely heard it anymore. But for a moment, a deeper rumble arose, a sound carried on the wind, rather than the wind itself. He remained still, listening for it again, trying to pierce the veil of sweeping sand. The storm continued its steady growl. The grumble was not repeated.

  Was it just the storm? He stared out to the east. He was certain the sound had come from that direction. He yanked open the door and twisted inside, half pushed by the winds.

  The room was crowded with bodies. He heard a child crying upstairs. He had no trouble picking Coral out from among the women, an iceberg in a dark sea. She rose from a cross-legged position. She had been cleaning one of her pistols.

  Recognizing his worry, she met him in quick strides. “What’s wrong?”

  10:22 A.M.

  ALL THEtrucks gathered in the lee of a dune, lined up as if awaiting the beginning of a parade. Men hunched in the relative shelter of the vehicles, but details were murky in the gloom. They were a quarter mile outside of Shisur.

  Cassandra strode with Kane down the ranks. She wore night-vision goggles, khaki fatigues, and a h
ooded sand poncho, belted at the waist.

  Kane marched with one hand covering the earpiece of his radio, listening to a report. A company of twenty soldiers had left ten minutes ago. “Roger that. Hold for further orders.” He lowered his hand and leaned toward Cassandra. “The team reached the town’s outskirts.”

  “Have them circle the area. Both town and ruins. Pick vantages from which to snipe. I don’t want anything or anyone leaving that place.”

  “Aye, Captain.” He returned to speaking into the throat mike, relaying orders.

  They continued to the rear of the line, to where six flatbed trucks carried the VTOL copter sleds. The helicopters were covered in tarps and lashed to their transport cradles. They continued to the last two trucks. Men tugged free the ropes securing the copters. A tarp went flying into the wind, billowing high.

  Cassandra frowned at this.

  “These are your best two pilots?” Cassandra asked Kane as he finished with the radio.

  “The bastards had better be.” Kane’s eyes were on the storm.

  Both Cassandra and Kane’s lives were now staked on the success of this mission. The screwup at the tomb had cast both of them in a bad light. They needed to prove themselves to the Guild command. But more than that, Cassandra noted an idiosyncratic quality in the man, a new savageness, less humor, more deep-seated fury. He had been bested, maimed, scarred. No one did that to John Kane and lived to tell about it.

  They reached the group of flatbed trucks.

  Cassandra found the two pilots waiting. She strode toward them. They had helmets tucked under one arm, trailing electronic cords that would feed radar data. To fly in this weather would be to fly by instruments only. There was no visibility.

  They straightened once they recognized her, difficult with everyone muffled up and bundled in ponchos.

  Cassandra eyed them up and down. “Gordon. Fowler. You two think you can get these birds in the air. In this storm?”

  “Yes, sir,” Gordon acknowledged. Fowler nodded. “We’ve attached electrostatic sand filters over the engine intakes and uploaded sandstorm software into our radar array. We’re ready.”