Sacred Stone

by Clive Cussler

  "Let's try freezing the firing mechanism," Truitt said.

  The timer was at one minute twelve.

  "Go," Cabrillo yelled.

  Truitt's gloves were frozen to the block of dry ice and he could not feel his hands. He tossed the block, gloves and all, onto the nose cone and then slid his gray hands under his armpits. The timer clicked a few more times then stopped cold.

  Cabrillo looked over at Truitt and smiled. "I'm surprised that worked," he said.

  "Necessity," Truitt said through gritted teeth, "is the mother of invention."

  Cabrillo nodded and reached for the voice microphone at his throat. "I need the bomb guys at the Queen Victoria Memorial ASAP."

  Fireworks erupted over the park and throughout London as the New Year came.

  Two minutes later a car pulled up and a British officer climbed out. Soon another car arrived containing an expert from the U.S. Air Force. Five minutes later the two men had the firing mechanism removed and stowed. Now the bomb was just a housing for an orb of enriched uranium.

  Its heart was ripped from its body, and with it went the life force that could bring death.

  * * *

  WHILE THE BOMB experts were rendering the device inert, Cabrillo and Truitt walked over to Amad's body, which was lying in a pool of blood on the pavement. The radio had reported that Lababiti had been detained and was now being brought back to London by helicopter. Elton John was still singing and the sound filled the air. The scene around the motorcycle was being cordoned off by British military and intelligence officials, and most at the concert were unaware of what had happened.

  "Nothing but a kid," Cabrillo said, looking down.

  Truitt nodded.

  "Let's get you to the medic to look at your hands."

  Kasim and Ross, who had arrived a few minutes after the timer was stopped, were wheeling the smashed Black Shadow over toward Cabrillo. The classic motorcycle was a mess. The tanks and side panels were scratched, the handlebars bent and one tire was flat. A perfect specimen of motorcycle history had been destroyed. Cabrillo looked at the motorcycle and shook his head.

  "I want you two to go back to the dealership," he said to Ross and Kasim, "and pay the man whatever his asking price was. Then I want you to ask him where to send it to be restored again."

  "You're keeping it, boss?" Ross asked.

  "Damn straight," Cabrillo said.

  Right then Fleming appeared and Cabrillo walked over to brief him. Lababiti was being brought back to downtown London, but it would be weeks before he filled in the pieces.

  Part 2

  Chapter 42

  ON BOARD THE U.S. Navy guided-missile frigate, Scott Thompson and his team from the Free Enterprise had yet to crack. Although they had been grilled by the navy commander of the ship since the time of their surrender, they had yet to disclose a thing.

  In the pilothouse, Commander Timothy Gant was awaiting the arrival of a helicopter from shore. The sky was black and the wind was whipping the seas into a white froth. On the radar scope a blip indicating the incoming helicopter moved nearer.

  "She's on final, sir," the helmsman said, "winds twenty to thirty from the north and northwest."

  Gant reached for his radio. "Get her secured to the deck the minute she touches down," he said to the head of his deck operations.

  "Roger that, sir," the man answered.

  The helicopter appeared out of the haze with her landing light illuminated. She came straight for the ship and barely slowed as she neared. "I'm coming in hot," the pilot said over the radio. One hundred yards, eighty, sixty, forty, twenty before the pilot slowed. Once he was just above the deck one-third of the way down the ship he saw the men with flashlights. Then he saw the open spot on the deck and dropped the helicopter down. As soon as the skids touched, a quartet of deckhands bent over at the waist ran out and secured the skids with chains. The rotor blade had not yet stopped when a single man carrying a valise climbed out and was led over to the door inside. Gant had come down to meet him and opened the door.

  "Come on inside out of the weather," Gant said as the man entered the ship. "I'm Commander Timothy Gant."

  The man was tall and lanky with a slightly pockmarked face and a hook nose. "Dr. Jack Berg," the man said, "Central Intelligence Agency."

  "The prisoners have yet to disclose anything," Gant said, leading the doctor down the passageway toward the brig.

  "Don't worry," Berg said quietly, "that's what I'm here for."

  FINDING A TECHNICIAN to fix the saw during the holiday had not been an easy task. Finally, Dwyer had just gone into the isolation room wearing a contamination suit and done it himself. Luckily, the problem had turned out to be simple—a belt that drove the saw blade had slipped and Dwyer had merely needed to tighten the pulley with a wrench. After testing his repairs inside the room and finding that the saw worked fine, Dwyer exited through the isolation lock, washed his contamination suit under the chemical bath, then removed the suit, hung it on a hook, and exited back into the control area.

  The technician who was monitoring the gauges looked up as he entered.

  "No leaks," he said, "and it looks like you got the saw fixed." Dwyer nodded, then pushed the button to start the saw again. As soon as the blade was spinning, he walked over to the joystick control and lowered it down to the sample taken from the Arizona crater. The blade bit into the lemon-sized metal chunk and sparks began to fly in the air like the flickering tendrils from a Fourth of July sparkler.

  Dwyer was halfway through the chunk when the alarm sounded.

  "Negative pressure," the technician shouted.

  "Add air," Dwyer shouted.

  The technician turned a dial and stared at the gauges on the wall. "We're still sinking," he yelled.

  Inside the isolation room, vortices like that from a small tornado began forming. Several of the samples began to lift in the air and swirl about as if weightless, while the wrench Dwyer had left inside was sucked off the bench and danced in the air near the saw. It was like a giant drain had been opened and the air in the room was being sucked into nothingness.

  "Full air," Dwyer shouted.

  The technician spun the air control valve to full on. Still the negative pressure grew.

  The inner layer of thick glass windows began to spider web. If they went, there was only one more layer of glass between Dwyer and the technician and certain death. The Kevlar gloves that poked through the wall were completely sucked in on themselves. Dwyer quickly slammed round metal plates over the arm openings then flipped down the hatches that held them in place. The workbench in the room was bolted to the floor with one-inch-diameter bolts. One of them sprung loose and shot toward the center of the bench. The workbench started to rock as the other bolts began to work loose.

  "Sir," the technician shouted, "we're going to lose it. I'm at full positive pressure and the vacuum is growing."

  Dwyer stared into the room. He was seconds away from a maelstrom. Then it hit him like a fist. Taking a step over to the board, he flipped on the laser. The laser lit up and the firing end began to wildly spin. Smoke filled the room as it gyrated around then touched down on the sample. Wherever the laser touched, it burned.

  "The pressure is dropping," the technician yelled a second later. "Back off the incoming air," Dwyer ordered.

  The objects in the room began to settle as the pressure was restored. A few minutes later, things were back to normal. Dwyer shut down the laser, and stared into the room.

  "Sir," the technician said a moment later, "would you mind telling me what just happened?"

  "I think," Dwyer said, "there is something in those samples that likes the taste of our atmosphere."

  "Good God," the technician said quietly.

  "Luckily for us," Dwyer said, "we just found both the disease and the cure."

  "There is more of that out there?" the technician said warily.

  "A hundred pounds."

  SOON THE PILGRIMS would begin pouring into Saud
i Arabia on chartered planes, buses from Jordan and ships crossing the Red Sea from Africa. Saud Al-Sheik still had a thousand details to attend to, foremost of which was arranging delivery of the prayer rugs. He had been promised that the new owner of the mill would call him tomorrow. So he called the Saudi National Airline and arranged for transportation space on a 747 cargo plane in two days' time.

  If the prayer rugs did not get here on time, not even his family connections could spare him from the wrath he would face. He stared around the warehouse in Mecca. Pallets of food and bottled water stretched to the ceiling. A forklift truck drove in and lifted the first container of tents from the floor to load into the truck for delivery to the stadium.

  Tomorrow the first of the tents would be erected.

  From then on, things would move very fast.

  Making a note to make sure the poles, stakes and guidelines were taken, Al-Sheik walked toward the door to make sure the driver loaded the truck properly.

  JEFF PORTE GATHERED up the items he was taking from Hickman's office and stared at the head of security. "Our warrant gives us the right to any and all items we determine might be of value."

  The large manila folder in Porte's hand contained documents, the dog tags and a few stray hairs he'd found on the desk.

  "I understand, Jeff," the head of security said.

  "Two of my men will remain here," Porte said, "in case we need anything else."

  The security chief nodded.

  Porte headed for the door and walked down the hall toward the living room, where his two detectives were waiting.

  "No one in or out," Porte said, "unless I okay it."

  Walking from the penthouse, Porte rode down in the elevator, exited the lobby and climbed into his car. As soon as he returned to the Las Vegas Police Department he copied the dog tags and the other documents, then faxed them to the CIA.

  As soon as Overholt received them he forwarded them on to the Oregon.

  HANLEY WAS READING the stack of papers when Halpert entered the control room.

  "Mr. Hanley," he said, "I have my report."

  Hanley nodded and handed him the papers Overholt had sent. Halpert read them, then handed them back.

  "This confirms my findings," Halpert said. "I found Hunt's birth certificate. His mother, Michelle, did not list the father but I managed to access the old hospital records and learned that the bill had been paid by one of Hickman's companies. There's no doubt now that Hunt was Hickman's son."

  "So what does that have to do with the meteorite?" Hanley asked.

  "Look at this," Halpert said, handing Hanley a file.

  "Hunt was killed by the Taliban in Afghanistan," Hanley said after he had finished reading.

  "Right after that, Hickman started exhibiting strange behavior," Halpert said, reading from his notes.

  "So he blames the Arab world for the death of his only son," Hanley said.

  "So how did he come to fund the expedition to Greenland?" Stone asked.

  "Apparently, since the death of his son, Hickman has funded numerous archaeological departments across the country. Ackerman's expedition for UNLV was one of several slated for the year. The primary one was an expedition to Saudi Arabia by a scholar who is trying to discredit the legend of Muhammad as a myth. Ackerman's was outside that realm but he received funds anyway. I think that the recovery of the meteorite was just a stroke of luck."

  "So Hickman decided at first to use history to attack the Arab world," Hanley said slowly, "then, as if from the gods themselves, the meteorite drops in his lap."

  "But that has nothing to do with Islam or Muhammad," Stone noted.

  Halpert nodded. "At that point I think Hickman decided more direct retribution was needed. I found records he pulled up on his computer dated right after Ackerman's finding. They explain the radioactive nature of iridium and the dangers it poses."

  "So he decides to grab the meteorite and then what," Hanley said slowly, "combine it with an existing warhead and bomb some Arab country?"

  "That's what has taken me so long," Halpert admitted. "At first I was following that same train of thought—that the meteorite was to be used somehow in a nuclear fashion. That was a dead end—there is simply nothing to tie him to the Ukrainian nuclear device or any other—so I started to branch out in my thinking."

  "Radioactive dust?" Hanley asked.

  "That's the only other logical use," Halpert said.

  "What else have you found?"

  "I found records that Hickman just purchased a textile mill in England, near the town of Maidenhead."

  "That's right about the current location of the meteorite according to the tracking data," Stone said.

  "He's planning to sprinkle it onto clothes and send them to the Middle East?" Hanley asked.

  "I don't think so, sir," Halpert said slowly. "The mill has a large order from Saudi Arabia for a shipment of woven prayer mats that has yet to be delivered."

  "So he's planning to sprinkle the dust on the prayer rugs and infect the Muslims while they pray," Hanley said. "Diabolically evil."

  "He arrived in London on his jet early this morning," Halpert said. "I think—"

  Right then Hanley's telephone rang and he motioned to Halpert to wait while he answered. It was Overholt and he got right to the point.

  "We have a problem," Overholt began.

  "NO," THE HEAD of security for Dreamworld said, "I'm calling from my home phone. I don't think it's tapped."

  Continuing, he explained about the warrant and the items the detectives had removed.

  Hickman listened.

  "Where are you now, sir?" the head of security asked. "They would really like to speak to you."

  "It's better that you don't know," Hickman said.

  "Is there anything you want us to do?"

  "Right now," Hickman said, "there's nothing anyone can do but me."

  Disconnecting, Hickman sat back in the chair in the office at Maidenhead Mills.

  Someone in the government was hard on his trail. It would not be long until they traced him to his current location. Reaching for the telephone, he dialed.

  THE CREWMEN FROM the Free Enterprise that had remained in Calais when the vessel sailed north had arrived in London this morning. There were four men, a skeleton crew really, but they were all Hickman had left. He telephoned them with their orders.

  "You will need to steal a trio of trucks," Hickman said. "Nothing will be available to rent because of the holiday."

  "What type?" their leader asked.

  "The cargo are standard forty-foot shipping containers that slide aboard flatbed trailers," Hickman said. "I called my man at Global Air Cargo and he recommended a few different types of trucks."

  Hickman read off the list to the man.

  "Once we have them, where do we go?."

  "Look at your map," Hickman ordered. "There is a town named

  Maidenhead just north of Windsor."

  "I see it," the man said.

  "Once you're in Maidenhead, drive to this address," Hickman said, reading off the mill's address and general directions.

  "How soon do you need us?" the man asked.

  "ASAP," Hickman said. "I have a Global Air Cargo 747 jet waiting at Heathrow for the cargo."

  "How'd you arrange that on New Year's Eve?" the man blurted.

  "I own the company."

  "Give us at least an hour," the man said.

  "The faster the better."

  The noose was closing, but Hickman had yet to feel it tightening around his neck.

  JUDY MICHAELS TAXIED the amphibian alongside the Oregon, then turned off the engine and walked back to the cargo door. Waiting for the plane to float forward on the tide, she waited until she saw someone on the deck then tossed up a rope. The deckhand secured the plane to the side and Cliff Hornsby climbed down the ladder.

  "Evening, Judy," he said as he began to take supplies that were being passed down to him, "how's the weather up high?"

  "Sn
ow and sleet," Michaels said as she too grabbed several of the bags and crates.

  Rick Barrett climbed over the side clutching a bag. Once on the deck he turned to Michaels. "There's some dinner and coffee in there," he said, "I made it myself."

  "Thanks," Michaels said, taking the last package.

  Halpert and Reyes crossed over.

  "Any of you men have any piloting experience?" Michaels asked before going forward to the cockpit.

  "I'm taking classes," Barrett said.

  "Chef and a pilot," Michaels said, "hell of a combination. Come forward then—you can help with radios and navigation."

  "What do you need us to do?" Halpert asked.

  "Once the deckhand throws off the rope, use that boat hook to push us away. Then close and latch the door and take seats. I'll fire her up when you tell me we're clear."

  Sliding into the pilot's seat, she waited until Barrett was seated next to her, then turned back to the cargo area. "Ready when you are," she said.

  Hornsby grabbed the rope that was tossed, Halpert pushed them away, and Reyes fastened the door closed. "Fire her up," Halpert said a moment later.

  Michaels turned the key and the engines roared to life. Idling away from the Oregon, she waited until they were fifty yards away and advanced the throttles. The seaplane raced along the water then lifted into the air.

  Michaels gained altitude, then made a sweeping left-hand turn.

  She was still climbing when they reached the outskirts of London.

  HANLEY WATCHED THE amphibian taxi away on the remote cameras, then turned to Stone.

  "How are you coming?" he asked.

  Halpert had left his notes in the control room. Stone was following up on leads.

  "I'm running through Hickman's companies now," Stone said.

  "I'll check to see if Hickman's pilot has filed any other flight plans," Hanley said.

  * * *

  AT THE HEATHROW Airport air cargo annex, a pair of pilots were sipping tea and watching the television in the lounge at the spacious Global Air Cargo hangar.