The Medusa Stone pm-3

by Jack Du Brul

  The pilot cut off Yosef’s speech by switching channels from the cockpit, and Mercer heard Dick Henna’s voice saying hello.

  “Hi, Dick. It’s Mercer.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. Where in the hell are you?”

  “I’ll tell you in a second, but first, have you made any progress finding Harry?”

  “Yeah, he’s back in Washington. He’s been here for a while now.”

  “I’ll call you later.” Mercer killed the connection and slumped. Oh, God, thank you.

  The guilt and the fear and the responsibility fell off Mercer in a liberating wave, leaving his mind clear for the first time since Harry’s abduction. It was over. He was finished. Nothing else mattered anymore. Harry was safe. Selome was safe. The Eritreans were free. Even Gianelli’s plan to blackmail the diamond cartel was over. He knew if he let it, his relief would cut through his resolve. But he wasn’t quite done yet. Mercer wasn’t going to allow Yosef to escape. He didn’t want it for his friends or for anyone else. He wanted this for himself.

  The pilot spoke before he could switch the radio back to the fleeing chopper. “We’ve got two problems here, Dr. Mercer. One is we’ll enter Saudi airspace in about four minutes. The other is a pair of fast movers just came up on radar. They’re closing at mach one from the north. ETA is ten minutes.”

  “Whose are they?” Mercer had a sinking suspicion he knew the origin of the approaching jets.

  “I’ve got no IFF signature off either of them.” The pilot referred to the Identify Friend or Foe transponders carried by the military aircraft of the United States and her allies.

  “So they’re not Saudi?”

  “I doubt they’d shut off their IFFS over their own territory, especially since the coastline’s covered with SAM installations.”

  “In other words, we’ve got ten minutes before that helicopter’s fighter escort arrives.”

  “Yup.”>

  “Let’s take ’em down.”

  “Hey, listen, Doc, is that such a good idea? I mean, whoever has the clout to wrangle up fighter cover must be legit.”

  Mercer grunted. “We’re about to be one of the checks and balances of the Israeli democracy. Maneuver us directly over that helicopter. I’ve got an idea.”

  Two miles from where the land met the sea, the Israeli renegades banked north to meet up with the jet fighters, skirting the outer reach of Saudi Arabia’s coastal defenses. There was no chance the lumbering Super Stallion could outrun the Blackhawk, but they certainly were trying. It took only three more minutes for the American helicopter to take up a position above the Israeli’s huge rotor.

  “You’d better have a damn good idea,” the copilot shouted. “Radar has those jets down our throats in four minutes.”

  Mercer worked furiously. “When I shout, break left as hard as you can, then land this pig. Fast. Those jets may take a shot even after I destroy the Stallion.” He keyed his mike to speak to Yosef. “Listen up, you son of a bitch, and listen good.”

  “Ah, the good doctor is back,” Yosef replied mockingly. “I thought you’d already left us.”

  “I’ve always preferred roulette, but I know enough about poker to know that when your bluff gets called, the game’s over.”

  Yosef’s voice was strained and his reply took just a fraction too long. “And you think I’m bluffing? Remember, it’s not your life you are gambling with but that of your friend, Harry White.”

  “Asshole, I know you’re bluffing.” Mercer estimated how long it would take a two-pound object to fall from the door of his helicopter and land on top of the other. Gauging as best he could, he cut ten seconds’ worth of fuse from the coil in his kit bag and seated it into his last stick of dynamite. “And in about a minute you’re going to pay the highest stakes of all.”

  “Bravado, Dr. Mercer,” Yosef replied. “In one minute, if I’m not given free passage, two F-16s are going to blow you from the sky. I may die, yes, but so will Harry White. Your revenge may be gratifying, but it will also be short-lived.”

  “You should have known when to fold ’em, partner,” Mercer drawled. It took a few tries to light the fuse in the air whipping around the cabin, but once it was burning evenly, he shouted, “Now!”

  The Blackhawk pilot had anticipated Mercer by a crucial half second, and when he released the explosive, he realized it would miss the upperworks of the Israeli helicopter. While an explosion near the hull of the Sikorsky would be damaging, it was doubtful it would cripple the huge cargo chopper.

  Mercer’s mouth opened for a scream of frustration even as the Blackhawk twisted and fell from the sky so fast that he became momentarily weightless. Yet his gaze never left the Israeli helo or the little package tumbling torward it.

  A helicopter’s rotor produces lift by creating a pocket of high pressure below the blades and low pressure above. For a chopper the size of the CH-53, tons of air rush into the vortex around the rotor, centering the craft like the eye of a hurricane. Into this maelstrom fell the dynamite. The little bomb would have fallen harmlessly past a conventional aircraft, but when it felt the relentless draw of the turbine-powered blades, it changed direction in midair. The millisecond before the packet was shredded by the rotor, the fuse touched the chemical explosives.

  The helicopter vanished behind an expanding blossom of fire, and when it finally reemerged, the six rotor blades and the top third of the aircraft were gone. The Super Stallion was dead in the air, only its forward momentum carrying it in a flagging parabola. Mercer didn’t blink until it slammed into the cobalt-blue sea, fire from its ruptured tanks washing away on the waves spawned by the impact. In a second it was gone.

  “Get us to the Arabian coast and under their radar umbrella,” Mercer shouted to the pilot, but the veteran was way ahead of him. The chopper settled into a flight path scant feet above the sea, the engines torqued for maximum speed.

  “Those jets are breaking off and returning north,” the copilot yelled a minute later.

  Mercer was too tired to care, but he gave a weak cheer for the crew’s benefit. “Let’s get back to the mine. We’re not done yet.”

  It took forty minutes, and on the inbound flight they heard radio chatter from other Blackhawks ferrying the injured to the amphibious assault ship.

  Habte was the first to greet Mercer on the ground, shaking his hand solemnly, then enfolding him in a brotherly hug that would add another day or two to the recovery time for Mercer’s broken ribs.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” Habte tried to keep the emotion out of his voice but failed.

  “Came damn close.”

  Selome was next to reach the little group huddled near the Blackhawk. She too hugged Mercer, much more gently, but her kiss was consuming — as if she was trying to fit every possible emotion into that one gesture. Mercer’s response was no less enthusiastic.

  “I’m fine, don’t worry.” She preempted his question.

  “The Marines have already freed the miners, and they’ve been sent with the worst of the injured to their base ship.”

  Mercer was still on an adrenaline high. Everything felt otherworldly. An hour ago he had been fighting for his life, and now he was holding hands with a beautiful woman, surrounded by grimy but satisfied soldiers. It would take a long time for everything to soak in, the horror and the pain, but for just a few minutes he felt like he was invincible, and the thought made him grin.

  “That’s great, but I was about to ask if you are ready for that vacation yet?”

  A Marine approached, extending his hand to Mercer. Behind him, two guards held Giancarlo Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer. The smile vanished from Mercer’s face, his gray eyes going deadly flat.

  “Captain James Saunders, USMC,” the redheaded Marine introduced. “It’s an honor to meet you, Dr. Mercer.”

  “Honor’s mine, Captain.” Mercer grasped the outstretched hand. “On behalf of all of us, thank you.”

  “Just doing our job, sir,” the Marine demurred. “I thoug
ht you might want to see these two characters before I shipped them out of here. The FBI already has agents in Asmara to escort them to Europe, where they’re going to stand trial.”

  “I’ve seen enough ugliness in the past weeks to want to pass up this last opportunity. Thanks anyway.”

  “Fair enough.” Saunders gestured for the guards to take the two to a waiting helicopter, but when they were just a couple of steps away, Mercer reconsidered. “One second, Captain.”

  Both captives were filthy and looked ravaged by their attempt to flee the battle, yet both were also uninjured. Mercer addressed Hofmyer first. “I’ve already kicked your ass once, so I’m not even going to bother with you.” Then he directed his hatred at Gianelli. The Italian yelped when Mercer’s murderous eyes fell on him.

  “You, on the other hand, well, this I’m going to enjoy.” Mercer cocked his fist, centering Gianelli’s face perfectly, but he stayed his hand. “Screw it. You’re not worth the effort.”

  Gianelli sagged with relief and stared goggle-eyed when Mercer turned away.

  “Like hell you’re not.” Mercer twisted back and slammed Gianelli, the punch rolling the industrialist’s eyes into his skull and laying him flat in the dirt. “Thank you, Captain Saunders. I think I needed that.”

  Selome ducked under one of Mercer’s arms and Habte braced up the other, so he walked between the two of them, using them for support. Then he straightened, the old fire returning, his face lit with a devilish thought. “What do you say we go find Gianelli’s safe and see what all this fuss has been about?”

  Masada, Israel

  In a land where nearly every building and hillock and cave has significance, few sites are as awe-inspiring or sacred as King Herod’s fortress at Masada. It sits atop a diamond-shaped mountain, commanding a view unlike any other in the world. The Dead Sea — earth’s deepest spot — lies in its shadow, over a thousand feet below sea level, the salty haze reflecting off the lifeless waters making it impossible to distinguish the Jordanian coast just seven miles away.

  Masada had been built as an unassailable defensive fort but became a favorite retreat to King Herod, who’d spared nothing in making its opulence legendary. It had two separate palaces and a swimming pool that was kept full year-round despite the brutal Judean summers. However, it’s not the architecture that makes Masada so significant, it’s what happened there during the Great Revolt in the first century A.D. when Jewish Zealots battled with their Roman masters.

  During the revolt, Masada was captured by Menachen Ben Yehuda and became a retreat for the Zealots. And after four years of warfare and another three of siege, it also became their last stand. Using Jewish slaves, the Romans constructed a huge ramp to the top of the mountain, an impressive engineering feat for the time, and when they finally broached the fortress walls, they discovered a funeral pyre. Surrounded by the Roman Tenth Legion under the command of Procurator Flavius Silva, 967 Jews chose suicide rather than submit to the army who’d besieged them.

  Like the Western Wall, Masada has become a tangible link to Jewish history, a site of pilgrimage and reverence. Today, every soldier inducted into the Israeli Defense Force has his swearing-in ceremony on the windswept thirty-acre shrine, a reminder of the heroism and strength of his people.

  That was why Prime Minister David Litvinoff was so angry as his Aerospatiale helicopter descended through the night, its landing lights shining brightly on the sandy hill top. How dare Levine soil this spot by agreeing to his surrender here? His brazenness knew no bounds.

  Levine had disappeared shortly after Harry White had been taken back to the United States. He’d narrowly missed an arrest, and since then, Shin Bet had been unable to locate him. Litvinoff was assured it would only be a matter of time, but after two weeks, it seemed the Defense Minister would never resurface, even as he continued to work to his goal of recovering the Ark of the Covenant. Levine had even managed to get fighter jets scrambled on his orders and a cargo helicopter sent to Eritrea to rescue his team there. The fighter pilots hadn’t known their mission wasn’t government sanctioned but they had still been dismissed from active duty pending a further investigation.

  Litvinoff’s chopper settled lightly and two soldiers sprang out, night-vision goggles scanning the parade ground south of Herod’s principal palace, weapons at the ready. The engine spooled to silence, the rotor blades beating the air slower and slower until they sagged like limp palm fronds.

  Litvinoff unhooked his seat belt and stepped to the ground. “If Levine wanted me dead,” he reassured one of his personal guards, “he wouldn’t have let us land.”

  Levine had called that morning, acting like he hadn’t a care in the world and told Litvinoff that he would surrender himself, but only if the Prime Minister met him at Masada.

  “Wait here.” Litvinoff ignored the expression on his guard’s face. “He wants to meet me alone at the upper terrace of Herod’s villa. I’ll be back shortly.”

  He was quickly swallowed by the night, the beam of his flashlight jerking as he walked north. Litvinoff tried to keep his mind blank as he rounded the walls of the ancient store-rooms and the crumbling foundations of the Roman administration building. The night was warm, but the salty breeze was cooling. His sparse hair blew around his eyes and the wind whipped dust from the ground.

  Passing the stairs that led to the lower terraces of the villa, Litvinoff continued through a stone maze until he came to a semicircular wall that hung over the northern tip of Masada like the prow of a great ship. It was too dark to see anything below him, but Litvinoff could feel the emptiness reaching out from just a few feet away.

  “I knew you’d come,” a voice called from the darkness.

  Litvinoff turned to face the voice, his back to the starless void. “How dare you desecrate this place by coming here. You almost destroyed everything Masada stands for.” He didn’t want to get into this with Levine, but his emotions were too much. His hate. His outrage.

  “Destroyed, David? No, I almost made everything worthwhile. I almost succeeded returning to Israel its most coveted artifact.” Levine stepped into the flashlight’s beam. Nothing about his posture looked like he was sorry about what he’d done. He even wore his uniform. In comparison to his striking figure, Litvinoff was short and gray, a tired old man who looked out of place anywhere other than an office.

  “Well, it’s over.”

  Levine laughed. “Do you really think it’s over? Are you that naive? This wasn’t all my doing, you know. There are others working with me, powerful men and women, many of them in your own government. We failed this time, but that doesn’t mean we won’t continue. We will find the Ark and restore the Temple and then we will do away with the Palestinians. You can’t stop us.”

  “Maybe I can’t, but that doesn’t matter,” Litvinoff said and saw that his words confused his Defense Minister. “Symbols can be powerful, Chaim, but only if people give them power. Even if you had found the Ark, do you think you would’ve been able to do all the other things you wanted? The excitement about its discovery would last only as long as the next scandal or the next war. No one cares anymore. They don’t want symbols.”

  “You’re wrong,” Levine snapped. “Symbols are needed more than ever. The world is falling apart. America is turning our planet into a homogenized strip mall. We need to maintain our differences. We need something to remind us all that we are Jews first and foremost, then Israelis or Americans or Europeans. It’s all we have left.”

  “I won’t disagree with you, but this isn’t the way.”

  “David, we’ve been friends for a long time—”

  “We’ve never been friends,” Livtinoff said evenly. “You were nothing but a political necessity to me, a way to keep a coalition government going. Don’t mistake that for friendship.”

  Levine nodded slowly, surprised by the frank declaration. “Very well, we have worked together for many years. You know I would do nothing to harm Israel. That is why we are out here tonight. I fa
iled at my quest and I know that my continued involvement in politics will only harm your government.”

  “How kind.”

  “Don’t think it’s for your sake. I told you before, the people working with me will continue. I’ve been exposed and I can’t let that jeopardize their efforts.” A gun appeared in Levine’s hand. He’d kept it in a holster behind his back. “This is the only way.”

  The shot was brutally loud, a crashing explosion of light and sound that assaulted Litvinoff’s ears like thunder. He hadn’t fired a pistol since the Six Day War and his hand stung.

  He’d fired his own weapon, pulling it from his pocket in front of Levine, but the Defense Minister hadn’t seen the action because of the flashlight beaming in his face. Chaim Levine looked at the wound in his chest even as he struggled to raise his own pistol to his temple. Litvinoff fired again and Levine fell back, hitting the stone wall and slumping to the ground, his automatic slipping from his fingers.

  “You won’t become a symbol, Chaim,” Litvinoff said to the corpse. “I won’t let you martyr yourself and add your ghost to the spirits that haunt Masada. You don’t deserve it, and despite what you thought, you never did.”

  Egypt

  Many factors made it inevitable that the Nile River would become one of civilization’s cradles. There were the yearly floods that deluged the river valley with such fertile soil that farming could continue year-round. And then there was the quirky fact that while the river flowed northward, the prevailing winds blew south, guaranteeing easy passage in either direction. It was this wind that gently moved across the wooden deck of the luxury barge, flicking at the canvas awning over the upper salon and drying beads of sweat dotting Philip Mercer’s face and bare chest, soaking into the waistband of his shorts.