The Holy Grail (Sam Reilly Book 13)

by Christopher Cartwright

  Below him were the flashing red and blue lights of the local highway patrol.

  Already, they would be radioing their base to report the theft of the helicopter. It wouldn’t take long for someone to make the connection with the Rolls Royce and the helicopter and determine that the helicopter was stolen by Sam Reilly. Ben Gellie had little understanding about the system of airways across the eastern seaboard, but given their close proximity to Washington, D.C. it wasn’t hard to guess that someone would locate the JetRanger on radar pretty quickly.

  Then it would be a matter of determining their level of threat.

  Would they shoot them down or force them to land? If so, how long would it take the local F16 Falcons to be in the air and in a position to shoot them down? He didn’t have to search far for the answer to that question: not very long. Would they wait until they had cleared the heavily populated cities? If they landed, could they escape on the ground? The answer came back as a resounding no.

  The crisp air was unusually cold for early spring. There was a gibbous moon with no cloud cover whatsoever. With the helicopter flying in a nose down position, Ben stared through the windshield. The night’s canvas of velvet darkness was intermittently broken by the sparkle of a handful of stars struggling to compete for exposure against the radiant glow of Washington, D.C. Slow moving red and green lights zigzagged across the horizon, indicating routine air traffic for the region. A mixture of commercial jets, private helicopters, and military aircraft.

  His eyes darted to the ground below.

  Already, he could make out the series of flashing blue and red lights across the highway, where police continued to check the roadblock. They were still searching for him. It was a good sign. If the roadblocks had been opened, he would have known for certain that they knew he was in the helicopter.

  Right now, someone would be reporting the hijacking of the helicopter to the police, who would be reporting it to Ronald Reagan Airport’s air traffic control, who would in turn be searching their radar screens for the stolen helicopter. Despite their advanced systems, Ben hoped that it was harder said than done to pinpoint an individual helicopter out of a sea of commercial traffic.

  It would be given a high priority, but much lower than had a commercial jet been hijacked. The helicopter was small and light with no inbuilt weapons bar its weight to be used in a terrorist attack.

  They would be deemed a low risk.

  Until someone realized that he was on board.

  He swallowed hard.

  There was no doubt in his mind the F16s from Joint Base Andrews would be scrambled as soon as the connection had been made.

  He turned his eyes to the right, leveling them at his captive, Sam Reilly. Despite the man’s obvious wealth, he flew with the comfort of a professional who’d spent years piloting a helicopter. The man was adeptly maneuvering the complex set of controls, flying the aircraft very low.

  Ben asked, “Any idea how long the flight to the border is going to be?”

  “No idea,” Sam replied without looking at him. “Why, were you planning on trying to fly to the Canadian border?”

  Ben’s right hand tentatively touched the Glock’s hilt, reassuring him that he still had the weapon. He didn’t take it out from where he’d tucked it into his belt earlier. There was no need to wave it around now that they were in the air. They were at an impasse. He had no idea how to fly a helicopter, so he couldn’t kill Sam and Sam had no reason to land anywhere other than where Ben wanted because he still held the gun.

  Ben let himself smile. “You heard the Secretary of Defense. The DoD won’t spare a dime over this. They’ll launch the largest fugitive hunt since 9/11 and they won’t stop until they catch me.”

  “You think they’re going to stop when you reach Canada?”

  Ben swallowed hard. “You’re right. They have an extradition treaty, but Canada’s not about to let thousands of FBI agents in to scour their countryside. Ideally, I’d head south, across the border, but we both know that’s an impossible journey for me to make. You got a better idea?”

  Sam said, “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The JetRanger dropped suddenly.

  With its nose dipped in a downward attitude, the helicopter raced toward the ground some hundred feet below, before leveling out just above the blacktop of a maple tree lined road into Hagerstown. Ben held his breath, gripping the side of his seat until his knuckles turned white. Above him, he watched the haze of spinning rotor blades overhead running dangerously close to the foliage of the row of maple trees that seemed to continually encroach farther across the roadway.

  Sam shoved the cyclic control – the joystick like device between his legs – to the left and the helicopter banked south, swinging round like the cart of a rollercoaster. Ben felt blood rush to the back of his head as he swung round the sharp bend.

  He wanted to scream and tell Sam to stop but was too terrified that any distraction might just cause the man to crash and kill them both.

  The helicopter seemed to speed up – if that was possible.

  At 2 a.m. the roads were empty. Sam flew along the road; the helicopter’s skids were no more than a foot off the ground.

  Up ahead, the three-lane highway lit up with the powerful lights of an oncoming Mac truck.

  Ben shouted, “Truck! Truck!”

  Sam remained silent. His gaze fixed straight ahead, controlling the helicopter with infinitesimal precision movements as they raced toward certain death. Ben noticed with abject horror that the man’s face was still plastered with unshakable insouciance.

  Did the man want to die?

  Ben felt the thump of his heart pounding in his chest, as he realized the greater possibility that the man had mentally snapped.

  Was he trying to kill them?

  “For God’s sake!” Ben shouted. “The truck’s going to hit us!”

  The truck jammed on its brakes, sending a bluish rubber filled smoke from its tires.

  Ben’s eyes darted between the truck and the ornamental arbor of maple trees that enveloped the roadway.

  Was there even enough room to ascend, or would the rotor blades hit the branches? Which way would Sam go? Ben gritted his teeth.

  The maple trees disappeared as the road approached the Williamsport Bridge crossing the Potomac.

  Sam threw the controls hard to the left. The helicopter banked along an invisible razorblade sharp bend as though it were on rails, going over the edge of the bridge, before dropping down sharply over the guardrails.

  Ben felt his head snap round with the sudden, jarring movement.

  An instant later, Sam brought the helicopter back to straight and level – no more than a foot off the river.

  Behind them, the prolonged honk of the truck disappeared with the Doppler effect.

  Sam turned his head to meet his eye. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  Ben expelled a deep breath and forced his clenched hands to open. “You want to tell me why you felt the need to nearly get us killed?”

  Sam shrugged. “We’re still alive, aren’t we?”

  “All the same, I’d like to know why you felt the need to try and kill us.”

  “To confuse the professional guys and gals at Potomac TRACON.”

  Ben stared at him, his face vacant. “What?”

  Sam closed his eyes for a split second, his jaw set in a half-lipped smile, as though he was trying to decide where to start. “What do you think of when you think of air traffic control?”

  “The little glass tower at the end of the runway.”

  “Right. Most people do. Those people in the tower, they’re called tower controllers. They guide an aircraft from the terminal to the runway, and manage their take-offs and descent approaches up until about five miles from the airport.”

  “Okay,” Ben said, impatient for him to get to the point. “So what?”

  “So, the rest of the time, which happens to be the majority of it, the aircr
aft is tracked by a dedicated team of men and women from the Terminal Radar Approach Controllers. Although they don’t know it yet, we’re currently being tracked by TRACON at Potomac.”

  “They don’t know they’re tracking us?”

  Sam shook his head. “They know we’re here, but they don’t care. They’re more concerned with aircraft flying at high altitude. They’re not interested in a helicopter flying less than a hundred feet off the ground.”

  “But they’re tracking us anyway?”

  Sam dipped the helicopter, following the Potomac River due south, keeping the helicopter’s skids just above the water, like a pair of water skis.

  He exhaled a deep breath of air, his eyes set on the horizon ahead. “Any minute now, those highway patrol officers are going to report the theft of the helicopter and TRACON will be tasked with the job of locating us. They’ll go through their data recordings to follow us from our very takeoff at Tripton Airport to our GPS location near Hagerstown.”

  “So, there’s nothing we can do about it?”

  The edges of Sam cheeks were lined with the evidence of a prominent grin. It imbued confidence, like a man used to winning. “Sure, there is. We just crossed the border.”

  Ben let the words hang there for a moment in silence. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “The Williamsport Bridge is the edge of the Potomac TRACON’s region. After that the area blends with Cleveland, Ohio’s TRACON. But Cleveland’s TRACON haven’t been tasked to look for a helicopter.”

  “Which means… what? They’ve lost us?”

  Sam nodded. “At that point, I dropped our altitude low enough that neither TRACON could have followed our movements.”

  Ben grinned. “Last they will see we’re flying south out of Hagerstown and now we’re racing along the Potomac.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “How long will the ruse last?”

  Sam said, “Both TRACONs will assume we were being watched by the other. When someone eventually tracks back, they’ll discover we disappeared off the radar and presumably crashed. Or landed.”

  “How long will that last?”

  “I have no idea. I’ve never tried to deceive our own dedicated men and women before.”

  Despite the tension in the air, Sam wore a carefree grin and his piercing blue eyes were wide with pleasure as he raced along the surface of the river.

  Ben stared at him through slightly raised eyebrows. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  Sam shrugged without turning his head. “It’s okay. I didn’t set out to be taken hostage today, but hey, as far as abductors go, you seem like a pretty good guy.”

  Ben laughed. “If it makes you feel better, I didn’t set out to take any hostages today, but as far as prisoner’s go, you seem like a pretty decent guy yourself.”

  Sam nodded, but remained silent.

  Up ahead a large concrete bridge crossed the river. Sam increased their altitude, before banking right, and settling the JetRanger into straight and level just above the blacktop on I-81 south. Once there, Sam increased the speed, racing along the highway at 110 miles per hour.

  Ben asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Radar won’t follow us along the highway. Even if they could spot us, their computers would assume we’re a small truck, not a helicopter.”

  “Obviously the people driving here are going to take notice.”

  “Sure, they will, but that won’t matter. They’ll tune into their radios to see if there’s an accident up ahead or something, but it’s unlikely they’re going to call 911 over it. Eventually, someone will post it to their social media feeds, and the game’s up, but by then, hopefully we’ll be long gone.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  Sam nodded. “Sure, why not?”

  Ben curled his lips upward into a grin. “You’re crazy.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The JetRanger raced south along I-81.

  After the helicopter’s swift movements, it now felt almost stationary as it hovered above the highway at more than a hundred miles an hour. Even the best cars allowed some small bumps, sudden movements, into the cabin on the highway, but as the helicopter hovered, it was perfectly smooth.

  Ben listened to the constant drone of the rotor blades above; his eyes followed the yellow broken lines that marked the edge of the road, as they appeared to blend into one constant unbroken line, with speed.

  He closed his eyes. Resting, but not sleeping.

  Drifting in and out of focus, in a transient state – not really awake - he opened his eyes and looked at Sam. The man’s jaw was set, his eyes focused, but he wore the casual indifference of a driver heading out on a vacation.

  Ben said, “You mentioned before that you had a theory why the FBI thinks I’m a terrorist?”

  Sam nodded. “I do, but they’re not really worried about you being a terrorist.”

  “That’s great to know,” Ben said drily. “What do they think I am then, a Girl Scout?”

  “They think you’re a descendent of an ancient race known as Master Builders.”

  “A what?”

  Sam met his eye. He paused and expelled a deep breath, as though not really sure how much to say or even where to begin. “Have you ever wondered how the ancient Egyptians built the pyramids?”

  “No.”

  “Really?” Sam looked at him through raised eyebrows. His face painted with incredulity.

  Ben shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’ve never really had any interest in all that archeology stuff. I’m more a present time kind of guy. Let the past be the past.”

  Sam opened his mouth, ready to put up an argument about the importance of learning from the past, and then closed it again. He swung the helicopter around an 18-wheeler truck with a deft movement of the cyclic collective to the right, before straightening up again.

  Ben felt his heart thumping away in his chest. “What about the pyramids?”

  “Have you ever been to Egypt and stood at the base of the Pyramid of Giza?”

  “No, but I went to school. I’ve seen photos.”

  Sam scrunched his face as though the comment physically hurt him. “It’s not the same.”

  Ben didn’t miss a beat. “What about the pyramids?”

  “Do you honestly think a four-thousand-year old civilization could have built something like that using technologies that predated the invention of the wheel?”

  Ben shrugged. “I haven’t given it a thought at all.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Sam asked. “Every kid in the world who’s seen a photo of the Great Pyramid has asked the question – how on Earth did they build it?”

  “Yeah, well not me. Like I said, let the past be in the past.”

  Sam started, “Just imagine…”

  “I get the idea. The pyramids are big. I’ve heard all the stories before. It’s an amazing feat, but somehow, they managed it.”

  “No, you don’t get the idea!” Sam said, without breaking stride. “The Great Pyramid consists of an estimated 2.3 million blocks which most believe to have been transported from nearby quarries. The Tura limestone used for the casing was quarried across the river. The largest granite stones in the pyramid, found in the King's chamber weighed between 50 and 80 tons and were transported from Aswan, more than 500 miles away. It is estimated that 5.5 million tons of limestone, 8,000 tons of granite, and 500,000 tons of mortar were used in the construction of the Great Pyramid.”

  “Okay, so they’re really big!”

  Sam continued. “The tombs are aligned north-south with an accuracy of up to 0.05 degrees. Today, you could align a building north-south by pointing the sides towards the pole star, which sits roughly at true north. The mortar used is stronger than the stone used to build the pyramid and is still in place today. Despite modern science, no one has been able to reverse engineer the mortar.”

  “So,” Sam concluded, “now do you want to throw a guess at how t
he ancient Egyptians achieved such an extraordinary feat?”

  “Didn’t the guards have really big whips or something?”

  “Actually,” Sam intervened. “Archeological evidence suggests the ancient Egyptians used skilled laborers, paid for their service, and not slaves.”

  Ben shrugged. “Okay, what’s this got to do with the FBI trying to take my life away?”

  Sam continued without breaking stride. “Have you ever wondered if we could build the same structure using modern technologies?”

  “No. But I assume we could.”

  “The answer is we’re still not capable of it. Each of those blocks weighs as much as 15 tons. To place one at the top of the 481-foot pyramid would be impossible. Yet, each block is so perfectly positioned that not even a hair could be slid through it.”

  “Okay, so how did they do it?”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Who did then?”

  “The Master Builders.”

  “What, like aliens?” Ben laughed, and then noticing Sam was serious, said, “Okay, so how did they do it?”

  “No one knows, but if a civilization that lived more than 4000 years ago had technologies superior to ours today, we want to know about it. And if their knowledge is still out there, then the U.S. military perceives that as a threat.”

  Ben opened his mouth to speak, closed his eyes and shook his head in dismissal. “They think I’m an ancient engineer?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “And they’re afraid of my potential engineering ability because they’re worried I might make a weapon that will kill everyone?”

  Sam nodded. “It’s just a guess.”

  “I don’t even like science and math, let alone engineering. And as for building a weapon that’s capable of being a threat to the US, I don’t even own a gun.” Ben gripped the Glock in his hand and folded his hands across his lap. “Except this one, but I assure you my ownership will be short lived. I’ll get rid of it as soon as I get out of this mess.”

  Sam let those words sit in silence for a while.

  The helicopter raced by for a few more minutes in silence before Ben broke it.

  He asked, “Why do they think I’m a Master Builder?”