“No,” the hodja said behind them. She nudged folk aside with her walking stick and stopped beside Safia. “The locks of Ubar can only be opened by one of the Rahim.”
Omaha wiped his hands again. “Lady, you’re more than welcome to try.”
Lu’lu tapped her stick on the bar. “It takes someone blessed by Ubar, carrying the blood of the first queen, to affect such sacred artifacts.” The hodja turned to Safia. “Those who bear the gifts of the Rahim.”
“Me?” Safia said.
“You were tested,” Lu’lu reminded her. “The keys responded to you.”
Safia flashed back to the rainy tomb of Job. She remembered waiting for the spear and bust to point toward Ubar. Nothing had happened at first. She had been wearing work gloves. Kane had carried and placed the spear in the hole. It hadn’t moved. Not until she wiped away the rain, like tears, from the bust’s cheek with her bare fingertips. Not until she touched it.
Then it had moved.
And the cresent horns of the bull. Nothing had happened until she had examined them, sparking a bit of static electricity. She had ignited the bomb with the brush of a finger.
Lu’lu nodded her forward.
Safia numbly stepped up.
“Wait.” Coral pulled out a device from her pocket.
“What’s that?” Omaha asked.
“Testing a theory,” she said. “I was studying the keys earlier with some of Cassandra’s electronic equipment.” Coral waved for Safia to continue.
Taking a breath, Safia reached out and gripped the bar with her good hand. She felt nothing special, no spark. She tugged on the bar. It lifted freely. Shocked, she stumbled back.
“Damn,” Omaha gasped.
“Oh, this impresses you,” Kara said.
“I must’ve loosened it for her.”
Coral shook her head. “It’s a magnetic lock.”
“What?” Safia asked.
“This is a magnometer.” Coral lifted her handheld device. “It monitors magnetic charge. The polarity of that length of iron changed as you touched it.”
Safia stared down at the bar. “How…?”
“Iron is highly conductive and responsive to magnetism. Rub a needle with a magnet and you pass on its magnetic charge. Somehow these objects respond to your presence, some energy you give off.”
Safia pictured the spin of the iron heart atop the marble altar of Imran’s tomb. It had moved like a magnetic compass, aligning itself along some axis.
Another crash sounded above.
Omaha stepped forward. “However it got unlocked, let’s use it.”
With the bar free, he grabbed the handle and tugged. The oiled hinges swung easily. The door opened on a dark descending staircase carved into the stone.
After closing and blocking the door, Omaha led the way with the flashlight, Safia at his side. The rest of the party followed.
The passage was a straight shot, but steep. It led down another hundred feet and emptied into a cavern four times larger than the first one. A pool filled this chamber, too, dark and glassy. The air smelled odd. Damp for sure, but also a trace of ozone, the smell that accompanies a thunderstorm.
But none of this held Safia’s attention for more than a moment.
Steps away, a stone pier stretched into the water. At the end floated a beautiful wooden dhow, an Arab sailing ship, thirty feet long. Its sides glistened with oil, shining brightly in the glow of their flashlights. Gold leaf decorated rails and masts. Sails, useless here but still present, were folded and tied down.
Murmurs of awe rose among the group as they gathered.
To the left, a wide watery tunnel stretched away into darkness.
At the prow of the dhow rose the figure of a woman, bare-breasted, arms chastely crossed over her bosom, face staring down the flooded tunnel.
Even from here, Safia recognized the figure’s countenance.
The Queen of Sheba.
“Iron,” Omaha said at her side, noting her attention. He focused his flashlight on the boat’s figurehead. The statue was sculpted entirely in iron. He moved toward the pier. “Looks like we’re going sailing again.”
12:32 P.M.
AT THEbottom of the sinkhole, Cassandra stared at the mangled body. She didn’t know how to feel. Regret, anger, a trace of fear. She didn’t have time to sort it out. Her mind spun instead on how to put this to her advantage.
“Haul him up top, get him into a body bag.”
The two commandos lifted their former leader from the wreckage of the tractor. Others climbed in and out the back end, salvaging what could be found, setting the charges to blow apart the bulk of the smashed vehicle. Other men hauled debris out of the way, using the dune buggies.
A pair of commandos unreeled a long wire through a gap in the wreckage.
All was in order.
Cassandra swung to the sand cycle and mounted it. She tightened her muffler and goggles, then set off topside. It would be another fifteen minutes until the charges were set. She sped up the path and climbed out of the sinkhole.
As she cleared the rim, the force of the sandstorm spun her around. Fuck, it had already grown stronger. She fought for traction, found it, and raced to the command base sheltered inside one of the few cinder-block buildings still standing. The parked trucks circled it.
She skidded to a stop, propped the bike against the wall, and hopped off.
She strode through the door.
Injured men sprawled on blankets and cots. Many had been wounded from the firefight with Painter’s strange team. She had heard the reports of the women’s combat skills. How they appeared out of nowhere and vanished just as easily. There was no estimate even on their numbers.
But now they were all gone. Down the hole.
Cassandra crossed to one cot. A medic worked on an unconscious man, taping a last butterfly suture over the cheek laceration. There was nothing the medic could do about the big lump above his brow.
Painter might have the nine lives of a cat, but he hadn’t landed on his feet this time. He had struck a glancing blow to the head. The only reason he lived was the loose sand along the inside rim of the sinkhole, cushioning his fall.
From the heavy-lidded glances from her men, they weren’t so appreciative of Painter’s good luck. They all knew of John Kane’s bloody end.
Cassandra stopped at the foot of the cot. “How’s he doing?”
“Mild concussion. Equal and responsive pupils. The bastard’s only knocked cold.”
“Then wake him up. Smelling salts.”
The medic sighed, but obeyed. He had other men, his own men, to attend to. But Cassandra was still in charge. And she still had a use for Painter.
12:42 A.M.
SO WHATdo we do?” Omaha asked. “Row? Get out and push?”
From the bow of the boat, he stared back. The entire company had boarded the fanciful dhow. Barak hunched over the ship’s tiller. Clay knelt and scratched at a bit of the gold leaf. Danny and Coral appeared to be studying the structure of the rudder, leaning over the stern and staring down. The Rahim spread out, examining details.
The dhow was even more impressive up close. Gold leaf adorned most every surface. Mother of pearl embellished knobs. The stanchions were solid silver. Even the ropes had gold threads woven into them. It was a royal barge.
But as pretty as it was, it was not much use as a sailing vessel. Not unless a stiff wind would suddenly blow.
Behind Omaha, Kara and Safia stood at the prow, flanking the iron figurehead of the Queen of Sheba. The hodja leaned on her walking stick.
“So touch it,” Kara urged Safia. The hodja had recommended the same.
Safia had her good arm crossed under her sling, her face lined with worry. “We don’t know what will happen.”
In her eyes, Omaha saw the flash of fire from the trilith chamber’s eruption. Safia glanced to the new crew of the dhow. She feared endangering them, especially by her own hand.
Omaha stepped to her side. He
placed a hand on her shoulder. “Saff, Cassandra is going to be coming down here, guns blazing. I’d personally rather take my chances with this iron lady than with that steel-hearted bitch.”
Safia sighed. He felt her relax under his palm, surrendering.
“Hold on,” she whispered. She reached out and touched the shoulder of the iron statue, the way Omaha was touching her. As her palm made contact, Omaha felt a slight electric tingle shiver through him. Safia seemed unaware.
Nothing happened.
“I don’t think I’m the one to-”
“No,” Omaha said, cutting her off. “Hold firm.”
He felt a gentle tremble underfoot, as if the waters under the ship had begun to boil. Ever so slowly the boat began to move forward.
He swung around. “Free the ropes!” he called to the others.
The Rahim moved swiftly, loosening ropes and ties.
“What’s happening?” Safia asked, keeping her palm in place.
“Barak, you got the tiller?”
Near the stern, the man acknowledged this with a wave of an arm.
Coral and Danny hurried forward. The tall woman lugged a large case.
The boat’s speed gently increased. Barak aimed them toward the open mouth of the flooded tunnel. Omaha raised his flashlight and clicked it on. The beam was lost in the darkness.
How far did it go? Where did it go?
There was only one way to find out.
Safia trembled under his palm. He stepped closer, his body next to her. She didn’t object, leaning back slightly. Omaha could read her thoughts. The boat hadn’t blown up. They were still okay.
Coral and Danny were bent over the side of the boat again, their flashlights shining. “Can you smell the ozone?” she said to Omaha’s brother.
“Yeah.”
“Look how the water’s steaming where the iron meets it.”
Curiosity drew all their eyes.
“What are you guys doing?” Omaha asked.
Danny pushed back up, face flushed. “Research.”
Omaha rolled his eyes. His brother was forever a science geek.
Coral straightened. “There’s some catalytic reaction going on in the water. I believe it was triggered by the iron maiden. It’s generating some propulsive force.” She leaned over the rail again. “I want to test this water.”
Danny nodded, a puppy wagging his tail. “I’ll get a bucket.”
Omaha left them to their science project. Right now, all he cared about was where they were going. He noted Kara eyeing him…no, him and Safia.
Caught staring, Kara glanced away, toward the dark tunnel.
Omaha noted the hodja doing the same. “Do you know where this is taking us?” he asked the old woman.
She shrugged. “To the true heart of Ubar.”
A silence settled over the boat as they continued down the long, dark throat. Omaha stared up, half expecting a night sky. But not here.
Here they sailed hundreds of feet under the sand.
12:45 P.M.
PAINTER WOKEwith a start, gasping, choking, eyes burning.
He attempted to sit up but was shoved back down. His head rang like a struck bell. Light burned icily. The room shuddered. He rolled to the side and vomited over the edge of a cot. His stomach clenched again and again.
“Awake, I see.”
The voice chilled the feverish pain from his body. Despite the glare and pain of the sharp lights, he faced the woman at the foot of his bed. “Cassandra.”
She was dressed in dun-colored fatigues with a knee-length poncho, belted at the waist. A hat hung by a cord behind her, a scarf around her neck. Her skin glowed in the light, her eyes shining even brighter.
He struggled to sit up. Two men held his shoulders.
Cassandra waved them off.
Painter slowly sat up. Guns pointed at him.
“We’ve got some business to discuss.” Cassandra dropped to one knee. “That little stunt of yours cost me most of my electronics. Though we were able to salvage a few things, like my laptop.” She pointed to the computer resting on a folding chair. It displayed a SeaWiFS satellite map of the region, with live feed of the sandstorm.
Painter noted the scrolling weather data. The coastal high-pressure system off the Arabian Sea had finally crossed the mountains. It was due to collide with the sandstorm in the next two hours. A megastorm of sea and sand.
But none of that mattered now.
“There’s no way I’m telling you anything,” he croaked out.
“I don’t remember asking you anything.”
He sneered at her. Even that hurt.
She shifted to the laptop and touched a few keys. The screen contained an overlay of the area: town, ruins, desert. It was monochrome, except for a small blue ring, slowly spinning, a quarter inch in diameter. Below it, coordinates along the X-, Y-, and Z-axes changed. A live feed. He knew what he was looking at. It was a signal from a microtransceiver, a system designed by his own hand.
“What have you done?”
“We implanted Dr. al-Maaz. We dared not lose track of her.”
“The transmission…underground…” He had a hard time making his tongue work.
“There was enough of a gap in the wreckage to lower a weighted thread antenna. It seems once we spooled enough wire we were able to pick up her signal. There must be good acoustics down there. We’ve lowered booster transmitters. We can track her anywhere.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Cassandra returned to his bed. She had a small transmitter in her hand. “To inform you of a small modification in your design. It seems with a bit more battery, you can ignite a pellet of C4. I can show you the schematics.”
Painter’s flesh went cold. “Cassandra, what have you done?” He pictured Safia’s face, her shy smile.
“There’s just enough C4 to blow out someone’s spine.”
“You didn’t…”
She raised one eyebrow, a gesture that used to excite, quicken his heart. Now it terrified him.
Painter clenched fistfuls of sheets. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
“How cooperative. But again, Painter, I don’t remember asking you any questions.” She held up the transmitter and glanced to the screen. “It’s time to punish you for your little stunt today.”
She pressed the button.
“No!”
His scream was lost in a monstrous explosion. It felt as if his heart had detonated. It took him a breath to understand.
Cassandra smiled down at him, deliciously satisfied.
Laughter rose raw, with little true humor, from the men in the room.
She held up the device. “Sorry, I guess that was the wrong transmitter. This one controlled the charges placed in the tractor’s debris. My demolitions experts have promised me the explosives will clear a path to the tunnel. All it requires now is a little cleanup. We’ll be moving in within the next half hour.”
Painter’s heart still ached, thudding in his throat.
Cassandra pulled out a second transmitter. “This is the real one. Keyed to Safia’s transceiver. Shall we try that again?”
Painter simply hung his head. She would do it. Ubar was open. Cassandra had no further need for Safia’s expertise.
Cassandra knelt closer. “Now that I have your full attention, maybe we can have that little chat.”
1:52 A.M.
SAFIA LOUNGED,one hand on the iron figurehead, her hip leaning against the ship’s rail. How could she be so terrified, yet so tired at the same time? It had been a half hour since they all heard the explosion, coming from the direction of the spiral ramp.
“Sounds like Cassandra’s come knocking,” Omaha had said.
By that time, their boat had sailed far down the tunnel. Still, tensions had escalated. Many flashlights pointed backward. Nothing came. Safia could only imagine Cassandra’s frustration at finding them gone and faced with a flooded tunnel.
It would be a long s
wim if Cassandra and her team attempted to follow.
Though the dhow’s pace was only a bit swifter than a fast walk, they had been sailing now for over an hour. They had to be at least six or seven miles away, making a slow but regal escape.
With each passing moment, everyone relaxed a bit more. And who was to say if Cassandra had even been successful in clearing the blockage atop the ramp?
Still, Safia could not let go of another fear, one closer to her heart.
Painter.
What was his fate? Dead, captured, lost in the sandstorm. There didn’t seem to be any hopeful possibility.
Behind Safia, a few of the Rahim women sang softly, sadly, mourning their dead. Aramaic again. Safia’s heart responded, grieving.
Lu’lu stirred, noting her attention. “Our old language, the language of the last queen, dead now, but we still speak it amongst ourselves.”
Safia listened, taken to another time.
Nearby, Kara and Omaha sat on the planks, heads bowed, asleep.
Barak stood by the wheel, keeping them sailing straight as the course meandered in lazy S-curves. Perhaps the passage had once been part of an old underground river system.
A few steps away, Coral sat cross-legged, bent over an array of equipment, powered by batteries. Her face was limned in the glow. Danny helped her, kneeling at her side, face close to hers.
Beyond them, Safia’s eyes found one last member of their group.
Clay leaned against the starboard rail, staring forward. Barak and he had shared a cigarette a moment ago, one of the few left in the Arab’s pack. Clay looked like he needed another.
He noticed her attention and came to join her.
“How’re you holding up?” she asked.
“All I can say is that I had better get a good grade.” His smile was sincere if a bit shaky.
“I don’t know,” she teased. “There’s always room for improvement.”
“Fine. That’s the last time I take a dart in the back for you.” He sighed, staring into the darkness. “There’s a hell of a lot of water down here.”
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