Sacred Stone of-2

by Clive Cussler

  “So,” Vanderwald said, “you must really hate these people.”

  Hickman stepped on the accelerator and the cart lurched forward down the fairway to their distant balls. “I’m paying you for your knowledge, not for psychoanalysis.”

  Vanderwald nodded and stared down at the photograph again. “If that’s what you think it is,” he said quietly, “you have a gem. The radioactivity is very high and it is extremely dangerous in solid or powdered form. You have a variety of options.”

  Hickman pressed on the brakes as the cart approached Vanderwald’s ball. Once the cart had stopped, the South African climbed from his seat, walked around to the rear and removed a club from his bag, then approached his ball and lined up to take a shot. After a pair of practice swings, he stopped and concentrated, then made a smooth arcing swing at the ball. The ball blasted from the clubhead, gaining altitude as it traveled. A little over a hundred yards distant, it dropped to the grass less than ten yards from the green, just missing the sand trap.

  “So a powdered form introduced from the air would do the trick?” Hickman asked as Vanderwald climbed back into his seat.

  “Provided you could get a plane anywhere near the site.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Hickman said as he accelerated away toward his ball.

  “Yes,” Vanderwald said, “striking at the heart of your enemies. But it will cost you.”

  “Do you think,” Hickman asked, “that money is a problem?”

  7

  SOMETIMES TEMPERATURE IS as much a state of mind as a condition. See waves of heat rising from the asphalt and chances are that you will think it is hotter outside than if you see the same road lined with snow. Juan Cabrillo had no illusions as to what he was seeing. The view out the window of the turboprop as it made its way across the Denmark Strait from Iceland to Greenland was one that could chill a man’s heart and make him rub his hands together in pity. The eastern shore of Greenland was lined with mountains, and it was a desolate and barren sight. In all of the thousands of square miles that comprised eastern Greenland, there was a population of less than five thousand.

  The sky was deep blue-black and roiling with clouds that held snow. One did not need to touch the white-capped waters far below to know the water temperature was below freezing and the tossing torrent was in liquid form only because of the salt content. The thin rime of ice on the wings and the edging of frost on the windshield added to the image, but the thick ice cap that covered Greenland, barely visible through the windshield ahead, lent it the most chilling and ominous feel.

  Cabrillo made an involuntary shiver and stared out the side window.

  “We’re ten minutes out,” the pilot noted. “The report advises wind of only ten to fifteen. It should be a cakewalk landing.”

  “Okay,” Cabrillo said loudly over the noise from the engines.

  The men flew along in silence as the rocky outline loomed larger.

  A few minutes later Cabrillo heard and felt the turboprop slow as it neared the outer edge of the airport’s pattern. The pilot steered the plane from his crosswind leg onto the downwind leg that would take them parallel to the runway. They flew for a short distance and Cabrillo watched the pilot adjust the flight controls. A minute later the pilot turned on his base leg, then flew for a short distance and turned again onto his final approach.

  “Hold on,” the pilot said, “we’ll be on the ground shortly.”

  Cabrillo stared down at the frozen wasteland. The lights lining the runway cast a pale glow against the afternoon gloom. The markings on the runway came into and out of view in the blowing snow. Cabrillo caught sight of the slightly extended wind sock through the haze and growing darkness.

  The airport at Kulusuk, where they were landing, served the tiny population of four hundred and was little more than a gravel runway tucked behind a mountain ridge along with a couple of small buildings. The nearest other town—Angmagssalik, or Tasiilaq, by its Inuit name—was a ten-minute helicopter ride away and had three times the population of Kulusuk.

  When the turboprop was just above the runway, the pilot gave it rudder and straightened it out against the wind. A second later he kissed the runway as light as a feather. Rolling across the snow-packed gravel, he slowed in front of a metal building. Quickly running through the post-flight checklist, he shut down the engine then pointed to the building.

  “I’ve got to fuel up,” he said. “You might as well head inside.”

  8

  AT THE SAME instant Cabrillo was landing at Kulusuk, the pilot of the Hawker 800XP was just shutting down his engines at the airport at Kangerlussuaq International Airport on the west coast of Greenland. Kangerlussuaq featured a six-thousand-foot-long paved runway that could handle large jets and was often used as a refueling station for cargo flights bound for Europe and beyond. The airport was nearly four hundred miles from Mount Forel but was the closest facility with a runway long enough to take the Hawker.

  Clay Hughes waited while the copilot unlatched the door, then he rose from his seat. “What are your orders?” Hughes asked.

  “We are to wait here until you return,” the copilot said, “or receive a call from the boss telling us to leave.”

  “How do I reach you?”

  The copilot handed Hughes a business card. “Here’s the number for the satellite phone the pilot carries. Just call us and give us a half hour or so to prepare.”

  “Were you told how I’m supposed to get from here to where I’m going?”

  The pilot poked his head out of the cockpit. “There’s a man approaching the front of the plane,” he said, motioning toward the windshield. “My guess is he’s here for you.”

  Hughes placed the business card in the pocket of his parka. “All right, then.”

  An icy wind was blowing across the runway, scattering the dry powdered snow like confetti on a parade route. As Hughes climbed down the stairway from the Hawker, his eyes immediately began to tear.

  “You must be the party I was hired to fly out to Mount Forel,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Mike Neilsen.”

  Hughes gave Neilsen a fake name, then stared overhead. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “We can’t leave until morning,” Neilsen said. “Two rooms were arranged at the hotel for you and the pilots. We can leave at first light—provided the weather breaks.”

  The men started walking toward the terminal. “Do you have enough range to fly directly to Mount Forel from here?” Hughes asked.

  “I have a range of six hundred miles in still air,” Neilsen told him. “However, for safety I think we should refuel in Tasiilaq before we attempt the mountain.”

  They reached the terminal building, and Neilsen opened the door then motioned for Hughes to enter. Neilsen steered Hughes toward a desk where a lone Inuit sat at an ordinary-looking metal desk. His mukluks were atop the desk, and he was sleeping.

  “Isnik,” Neilsen said to the dozing man, “time to work.”

  The man opened his eyes and stared at the two men in front of him. “Hey, Mike,” he said easily. “Passport, please,” he said to Hughes.

  Hughes handed the official a U.S. passport bearing a false name but his actual picture. Isnik barely glanced at the document then stamped the entry.

  “Purpose of visit?” he asked.

  “Scientific research,” Hughes answered.

  “I guess no one comes here for the weather, right?” Isnik said as he made a notation on a slip of paper on a clipboard on his desk.

  “Can you ask the pilots to walk over to the hotel after they are cleared?” Neilsen asked Isnik.

  “You got it,” Isnik said, sliding his boots back atop the desk.

  Neilsen started leading Hughes to the door out of the terminal. “This is an old U.S. Air Force base,” he said. “The hotel was base housing. It’s actually quite nice. It has the only indoor pool in Greenland and even a six-lane bowling alley. For this country, it’s the closest thing to four-star lodging.” />
  The men covered the short distance across the parking lot to the hotel and Hughes received his key. Two hours later, after a meal of musk ox steaks and French fries, he settled in for the night. It was still only early afternoon, but tomorrow he had a lot of work to do and he wanted to be thoroughly rested.

  9

  JUAN CABRILLO BREEZED through customs at the tiny terminal at Kulusuk then stared at a map on the wall near the door leading out. In the brief months of summer, Kulusuk Island was ringed by water. As soon as fall arrived and the temperatures dropped, the seawater froze into thick sheets of ice. And while the ice never reached a thickness that could support the weight of a locomotive, for example, cars, trucks or snow vehicles had no trouble venturing across to the mainland.

  In winter, Kulusuk was an island no more. It was attached to Greenland by ice.

  From where Cabrillo stood, it was slightly over sixty miles north to the latitude that marked the actual Arctic Circle, and from there it was a dozen or so more to Mount Forel. Winter solstice, December 22, was only a few days past. That day, at the exact location of the Arctic Circle, was the only single day of total darkness each year.

  North of the circle, depending on how far one went, the blackness was constant. The farther north, the longer that condition remained. At the exact spot of the Arctic Circle and to the south of it, December 22 marked a turning point. As winter progressed toward spring, the daylight grew longer by minutes each day. By the time summer came, the midnight sun would rise and in the area north of the Circle, the sun would not set for some time.

  It was a cycle that had repeated itself for countless eons.

  Outside, a howling wind raked hard pellets of frozen snow against the windows in the terminal. The weather looked as appealing as the interior of a meat locker. Cabrillo stared and felt a shiver. Though still indoors, he tugged at the zipper to his parka.

  Since Kulusuk was just south of the Arctic Circle, there would be a few minutes of light today. By contrast, Mount Forel was still in total darkness. The next few days and weeks would see the top of the mountain begin to catch the first rays of light. Then, as the months passed, the sunlight would begin to drip down the sides of the mountain like yellow paint poured atop a pyramid.

  But looking outside one would never guess the sun had been, or was, anywhere near.

  Right now, however, Cabrillo was less concerned with the darkness than he was with transportation. Walking off to the side of the terminal, he removed a satellite telephone and hit the speed dial.

  “WHAT HAVE YOU found out?” he asked when Hanley answered.

  Because of Overholt’s urgency, Cabrillo had left the Oregon without a clear plan on how he was to travel to Mount Forel. Hanley had assured him that by the time he was on the ground there would be a plan in place.

  “There are some dogsled teams available for charter,” Hanley noted, “but you’d need a guide as a musher—and I didn’t figure you wanted a witness, so I ruled that out. The helicopters that service Kulusuk have regularly scheduled routes, from Tasiilaq and back, but they don’t hire out and the current weather has them grounded.”

  “Not walking weather,” Cabrillo said, staring outside.

  “Or skiing,” Hanley added, “though I know you pride yourself on your skiing ability.”

  “So what is it?”

  “I had the computer pull vehicle registrations from the area—it didn’t take long, as there are only four hundred or so people in Kulusuk. I discounted snowmobiles because you’d be exposed to the snow and cold, plus their tendency to break down. That leaves us with snowcats. They are slow and burn a lot of fuel, but they have heaters and plenty of room for storage of supplies. I think that’s our best bet.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Cabrillo said. “Where’s the rental place located?”

  “There isn’t one,” Hanley said, “but I pulled up the names and addresses of private owners from the Greenland registry and made a few calls. None of the people that own them have home telephone numbers, but I reached the pastor of the local church. He said there is one man that might agree to a rental—the rest are in use.”

  “What’s the address?” Cabrillo asked, removing a pencil and small pad of paper from his parka for notes.

  “The address is the sixth house past the church, red walls with yellow trim.”

  “No street addresses this far north, huh?”

  “Everybody knows everyone else, I guess,” Hanley said.

  “Sounds like the natives are friendly.”

  “I’m not too sure about that,” Hanley told him. “The pastor mentioned the owner drinks quite a bit during the winter. He also said almost everyone in town carries firearms to ward off bears.”

  Cabrillo nodded. “So basically, I just need to convince an armed drunken native to rent me his snowcat and I’m on my way,” Cabrillo said, patting the packets of one-hundred-dollar bills in his parka pocket. “Sounds simple enough.”

  “Well, there’s one more thing—he’s not a native. He grew up in Arvada, Colorado, and was drafted into the army during the Vietnam War. From what I’ve been able to piece together from the databases, once he returned he spent a few years in and out of VA hospitals. Then he left the country with the idea of getting as far away from the U.S. as possible.”

  Cabrillo stared out the window again. “It looks like he reached his goal.”

  “I’m sorry, Juan,” Hanley said. “In two more days, when the summit wraps up, we could reposition the Oregon and Adams could fly you up in the helicopter. Right now, however, this is all we’ve got.”

  “No sweat,” Cabrillo said, staring at his notes. “Sixth house from the church.”

  “Red walls,” Hanley said, “and yellow-painted trim.”

  “Well then, let me go meet a madman.”

  He disconnected and walked through the door leading outside.

  CABRILLO LEFT HIS boxes of supplies at the airport and approached a snowmobile taxi with an Inuit teenager standing alongside. The boy raised his eyebrows when Cabrillo gave the address but he said nothing. He seemed more concerned with the fee, which he quoted in Danish currency.

  “How much in U.S. dollars?” Cabrillo asked.

  “Twenty,” the boy said without hesitation.

  “Done,” Cabrillo said, handing the boy a bill.

  The boy climbed onto the snowmobile and reached for the starter button. “You know Garth Brooks?” the boy asked, assuming everyone in the United States must know everyone else, just like in his village.

  “No,” Cabrillo said, “but I played golf with Willie Nelson once.”

  “Cool. Is he any good?”

  “Wicked slice,” Cabrillo said as the boy hit the starter and the engine roared to life.

  “Get on,” the boy shouted.

  Once Cabrillo was seated, the boy raced away from the airport. The snowmobile’s headlight barely cut through the darkness and blowing snow. Kulusuk was little more than a cluster of homes a mile or so from the airport. The sides of the houses were partially covered by snowdrifts. Trails of smoke and steam came from inside. Teams of dogs were clustered near houses, along with many snowmobiles; skis were propped up into the snow, tips aloft; snowshoes hung on nails near the doors.

  Life in Kulusuk looked hard and grim.

  North of town, the expanse of ice leading across to the mainland was barely visible as a dim outline. The surface of ice was black and slick as wind blew the snow and piled it into small drifts that ceaselessly formed and reformed. The hills across the frozen ice were only visible as an outline, a different color gray against a backdrop of nothingness. The scene looked about as inviting as a tour of a crematorium. Cabrillo felt the snowmobile slow then stop.

  He climbed from the back and stood on the semi-packed snow.

  “Later,” the teenager said with a quick wave of his hand.

  Then the boy turned the yoke hard to the left, spun around on the snow-packed street and raced away. Cabrillo was left alone in the cold and
darkness. He stared at the half-buried house for a second. Then he started walking through the drifts toward the front door. He paused on the stoop before knocking.

  10

  HICKMAN STARED AT the records from the Saudi Arabian Office of Procurement that his hackers had lifted from a database. The records had been translated from Arabic into English but the translation was far from perfect. Scanning the lists, he made notes alongside the columns. One entry stood out. It was for woven wool kneeling pads and the supplier was located in Maidenhead, England. Reaching for his intercom, he buzzed his secretary.

  “There’s a Mr. Whalid that works for me at the Nevada hotel. I think he’s an assistant food and beverage director.”

  “Yes, sir,” the secretary said.

  “Have him call me at once,” Hickman said. “I have a question for him.”

  A few minutes later his telephone rang.

  “This is Abdul Whalid,” the voice said. “I was told to call you.”

  “Yes,” Hickman said. “Call this company in England for me”—he rattled off the telephone number—“pretend you’re a Saudi Arabian official or something. They have a multimillion-dollar order for woven wool kneeling pads, and I want to know what exactly that means, woven wool kneeling pads.”

  “Can I ask you why, sir?”

  “I own mills,” Hickman lied. “I’d like to know what these items are, because if we can make them, I’d like to know why my guys didn’t bid on the job.”

  That made sense to Whalid. “Very good, sir. I’ll call them and call you right back.”

  “Excellent.” Hickman returned to staring at the picture of the meteorite. Ten minutes later, Whalid phoned again.

  “Sir,” Whalid said, “they are prayer rugs. The order is so large because the country is replacing the entire inventory used at Mecca. Apparently they do this every ten years or thereabouts.”

  “Hmm, so we missed an opportunity that won’t be around again for a while. That’s not good.”