Sacred Stone Page 16

  "I haven't seen him since I left," Bennett said. "My guess is they turned back."

  "Good," the voice said, "then my plan should work. Get out your chart."

  Bennett opened the chart showing Scotland. "Got it," he said.

  "Do you see Inverness?"

  Bennett glanced at the chart. "Yep."

  "Right south of there, do you see the large lake?"

  "You're kidding," Bennett said.

  "Nope," the voice said, "Loch Ness. Fly along the east side—we have a team on the ground in a truck. They are going to pop smoke so you can see them."

  Popping smoke was a military term for igniting smoke grenades to mark a position.

  "Then what?" Bennett asked.

  "Come in low and drop the cargo out the door," the voice said. "They will retrieve it and bring it the rest of the way."

  "What about me?" Bennett asked.

  "You let the fighter jets force you down at an airport," the voice said. "Then once the Cessna is searched and found to be empty, they will think this was all just a mistake."

  "Brilliant," Bennett said.

  "That's what I thought too," the voice said before disconnecting.

  THE ROBINSON HELICOPTER carrying Cabrillo and Adams passed over the rocky shoreline. Adams made a thumbs-up sign to Cabrillo, then turned on the microphone.

  "Looks like we'll live," Adams said. "If we run out of fuel now, I can do an autorotation to the ground."

  "I hope that if it comes to that, you've been practicing."

  "I do a few every week," Adams said, "just in case."

  The cloud cover was thickening the farther inland they flew. Every now and then the men could catch a glimpse of the snow-covered hills of Scotland below. Thirty seconds earlier, Cabrillo had caught a quick glimpse of the flashing taillight of the Cessna above.

  "The jets should be out there now," Cabrillo said as he reached for the satellite telephone and called Hanley.

  THE OREGON WAS steaming south from the Faeroe Islands at full speed. Soon a decision would have to be made about whether to steam west along Scotland and Ireland or east between the Shetland Islands and the Orkneys into the North Sea. Hanley was watching the projections flash across the monitors when his telephone rang.

  "What's the status?" Cabrillo asked without preamble.

  "Overholt had trouble getting the British jets scrambled," Hanley said. "Last word was they just left Mindenhall. If they travel at Mach one-plus, they should reach you in a half hour, give or take."

  "We don't have a half hour of fuel left," Cabrillo said.

  "I'm sorry, Juan," Hanley said. "I dispatched the Challenger from Aberdeen to take up the pursuit until the fighters arrive. They can track the Cessna and call me with the information. We're going to get this guy—don't worry about that."

  "What about the yacht?"

  "It steamed from the port in the Faeroe Islands ten minutes ago," Hanley reported. "A U.S. guided-missile frigate is on a course to intercept her out in the Atlantic."

  "Finally," Cabrillo said, "some good news."

  Hanley was staring at the monitor that showed the position of the Cessna and the Robinson. At the same time, he was listening to the copilot of the Challenger giving an update over the radio speaker in the control room. The Challenger was picking up the two aircraft on their radar scope and closing quickly.

  "The Cessna is just now flying over Inverness," Hanley said. "The Challenger has him on their scope. How much fuel do you have left?"

  Cabrillo spoke over the headset to Adams. "Can we make Inverness before we run out of fuel?"

  "I think so," Adams said, "we picked up a tailwind once we crossed onto land."

  "Enough to make Inverness," Cabrillo said to Hanley.

  Hanley was going to recommend that Cabrillo and Adams stop and refuel but he never had the chance. Right at that instant the copilot of the Challenger called in to report again. All of a sudden the Cessna was descending.

  "Juan," Hanley said quickly, "the Challenger just reported the Cessna is starting a descent."

  On the moving map aboard the Robinson, Inverness was only a few miles ahead.

  "Where is he trying to land?" Cabrillo asked.

  "It looks like Loch Ness, along the eastern side."

  "I'll call you back," Cabrillo said to Hanley before disconnecting.

  The weather was turning worse and rain began running along the windshield of the Robinson in tiny streams. Adams turned up the fan on the defroster and stared at the fuel gauge apprehensively.

  "Do you believe in monsters?" Cabrillo asked Adams.

  "I believe in monster trucks," Adams answered, "why do you ask?"

  Cabrillo pointed to the moving map. The cigar-shaped mark of Loch Ness was just coming into view. "According to Hanley, the Cessna is on a descent for a landing along the east side of Loch Ness."

  In the last few minutes, Adams had been able to catch a few glimpses of the ground before the clouds closed in. "I don't think so," he said.

  "Why not?" Cabrillo asked.

  "Too hilly," Adams noted, "there's no place for a runway."

  "Then that must mean —" Cabrillo started to say.

  "He's making a drop," Adams said, finishing the sentence.

  AS SOON AS he received Bennett's call that the Cessna had left the Faeroe Islands and was being followed, the leader of the operation ordered two of the four men waiting at Glasgow to drive north at breakneck speed. The two men had made the hundred-plus-mile trip to Loch Ness in less than two hours, and they awaited further instructions. Ten minutes ago the men had received word to head to the east side of the loch, find a desolate area, and then wait until they were notified. Two minutes ago, a call came in ordering them to light their smoke grenades and wait for a package to be dropped.

  The men were sitting in the back of the van with the doors open, watching the smoke being blown about by the rain. The plane was due to arrive any minute.

  "Did you hear that?" one of the men asked, hearing the sound of a plane.

  "It's growing louder," the second man said.

  "I thought our guy was in a…"

  Bennett fought the controls as the jet wash from the Challenger buffeted the air around the Cessna. Whoever was flying the corporate jet was a madman or an incompetent, he thought. Surely his tiny plane must have been on their radar scope.

  "Two hundred feet," the copilot of the Challenger said. "We lose an engine now and we're toast."

  "Watch out the window," the pilot ordered. "I'll make one pass and then pull up."

  The Challenger streaked above the ground, barely clearing the hilltops. In the jet's wake, snow was blowing in vortices from the rear. A taller hill dominated the view out the windshield and the pilot pulled up on the yoke then dropped the altitude again when they'd crossed over. They were flying over the loch now.

  "There," the copilot said, pointing to a van on the eastern shore nearest Inverness, "I see smoke."

  The pilot glanced over, then pulled back on the yoke and began climbing into the sky again. "Oregon," he said once they had reached a safe cruising speed again, "we have a van on the eastern shore with smoke markers ignited. How long until the fighters are due to arrive?"

  "Challenger," Hanley said, "the fighters are still fifteen minutes distant."

  "They're going to try a drop," the pilot of the Challenger said.

  "Thanks for the report," Hanley said.

  "THEY ARE GOING to try a drop," Cabrillo said as soon as Hanley answered.

  "We know," he said, "I was just getting ready to call you. The Challenger just made a low-level pass and witnessed a van with smoke markers active along the eastern shore."

  "We just caught a glimpse of the Cessna," Cabrillo said, "he's just in front of us. Both of us will be over the loch within minutes."

  "How's the fuel situation?"

  "Fuel?" Cabrillo asked Adams.

  "I've never seen the gauge this low," Adams said.

  Cabrillo repeated what
Adams had said.

  "Break it off," Hanley said quickly, "and land while you still can."

  The Robinson flew through a patch of clearer air and Cabrillo stared down. The wind-whipped water of the loch was visible. "Too late for that, Max," Cabrillo said, "we just started over the loch."

  THE TWO MEN waiting by the loch had been ordered to maintain radio silence until they recovered the meteorite and were a safe distance away from the drop zone. Because of this they did not report the low-flying jet. There was a good chance the business jet was just an oil company plane having problems—if not, there was little they could do about it anyway. They continued to listen and scan the skies for signs of the Cessna.

  THE TORNADO ADV fighter passed over Perth, Scotland, and the British flight officer reported his position. They were less than six minutes from Loch Ness and closing fast.

  "Watch for a Challenger corporate jet and a rotary helicopter in the area," the flight officer radioed his wingman. "They are friendlies."

  "Acknowledged," the wing man said, "target is a Cessna 206 prop plane."

  "Five minutes, out," the flight officer radioed to his base.

  BENNETT STRAINED TO see the smoke marker he had been told to watch for once he caught sight of the northeast end of the loch. It was hazy and the fog over the water mixed with the smoke. He lowered the flaps and slowed the Cessna to a crawl, then looked again. Flashing lights appeared from across the loch, and he turned to fly closer.

  * * *

  "THERE'S THE LOCH," Cabrillo said.

  The Robinson was closing fast on the Cessna and Adams slowed down. "He's slowing," he said through the headset to Cabrillo.

  Cabrillo stared at the moving map on the dash. "There's no field showing, so he must be trying a drop, just like we thought."

  The helicopter was halfway across the water, tracking the Cessna, which was turning to fly along the eastern shore. Adams had just moved the cyclic to head toward land when the engine started to sputter.

  ON BOARD THE Cessna 206, Bennett looked ahead. He could now see the smoke, the flashing strobe lights, and the van. Flying lower to the ground, he reached over and unlocked the passenger door and slid the box containing the meteorite to the edge of the seat nearest the door. A minute or so longer and he could open the door, tilt the plane over on her side and then push the box out.

  BILLY JOE SHEA drove along the eastern edge of Loch Ness in a black 1947 MG TC. Shea was an oil-field drilling-mud salesman from Midland, Texas, who had purchased the classic car only a few days before from a garage in Leeds. His father had owned a similar vehicle, bought in England when he was stationed there in the air force, and Billy Joe had learned to drive in it. It had been nearly three decades since Shea's father had sold the car, and Shea had always had a secret desire to buy one himself.

  A search on the Internet, a second mortgage on his home, and the three weeks' vacation he had accumulated finally made the dream a reality. Shea had decided to tour Scotland and England for a couple of weeks, until he would need to drop the car off at the port in Liverpool to be shipped home. Even with the top up the rain was seeping in through the open side doors. Shea picked up his cowboy hat off the passenger side of the bench seat and flicked the rain off. Then he stared at the engine gauges and motored on. He passed a van by the side of the road and then the road was dear again.

  It was quiet and peaceful, and the air smelled of wet peat and rain-slick roads.

  "I HAVE THE fighters on radar," the pilot of the Challenger said to Hanley over the satellite telephone.

  "How far away are you from the Cessna?" Hanley asked.

  "Not far," the pilot said. "We're lining up to make a pass over the eastern shore from south to north right now. We're going to buzz him as close as we can."

  BENNETT WAS CLOSE to the drop point. He reached over, unlatched the door, and started to tilt the Cessna on her axis. Out of the corner of his eye Bennett caught sight of an old car driving along the road. Then he concentrated on making the drop as close to the van as possible.

  Just then the corporate jet appeared in his windshield.

  "THERE'S A VAN down on the road on the eastern shore," the pilot of the Challenger said to Hanley as he screamed past Bennett at a low altitude.

  "What does—" Hanley started to say before being cut off.

  "There's the Robinson," the pilot shouted.

  "Can he see the van?" Hanley asked.

  "Probably," the pilot said, pulling out of the pass and climbing, "but he's still a distance away."

  "Get out of there," Hanley ordered. "We just received word from the British authorities that their fighters are only a few minutes away. They can handle things now."

  "Acknowledged," the pilot of the Challenger said.

  * * *

  ON THE GROUND near the van, the two men watched as the Cessna came closer.

  "I think I see a helicopter farther back," one of the men said.

  The other man stared into the mist. "I doubt it," he said. "If it was that close, we could hear the engine and the rotor slap."

  They could see the door of the Cessna open.

  THE TWO MEN could have heard the engine of the helicopter—if the engine had been running. Instead, the cockpit of the Robinson had grown eerily quiet, with only the sound of the air slipping past the fuselage as Adams initiated an autorotation. He angled toward land and prayed they would not fall short.

  Cabrillo just caught a glimpse of the van and the flashing strobes as they dropped.

  He didn't bother to tell Adams over the headset—he had his hands full right now.

  BENNETT PUSHED ON the box and it flipped out of the open door. Then he righted the Cessna and turned to head for the airport in Inverness. He was climbing into the air to clear the hills at the far end of the lake when he caught a quick glimpse of the helicopter only five hundred feet off the ground.

  As soon as he could get the Cessna stabilized and on course he'd call and report.

  A ROCK IN a box falls straight to earth. The meteorite plummeted down and slammed into a spot of soggy peat without breaking. The two men raced over and were just starting to pull the box from the mud when the high-pitched whine from the engines of a pair of fighter jets grew louder. Raising their heads, they stared up as the jets streaked past.

  "Let's get the hell out of here," the first man said as soon as he yanked the box from the peaty soil.

  The second man raced ahead to start the van while the first followed with the box.

  "I THINK I can make the road," Adams shouted over the headset.

  The Robinson was in a depleting arc powered only by the air flowing up through the rotor blades and causing them to spin. Adams was controlling the helicopter to the ground—but he was losing air speed fast.

  The edge of the loch and the road were fast approaching, and he started his flare.

  THE FIGHTERS CAME up behind Bennett and the Cessna so fast it was as if they had appeared out of thin air. They crossed within feet to either side, then blew past him and initiated high-speed turns. Just then his radio squawked.

  "This is the Royal Air Force," a voice said, "you are to make your way to the nearest airfield and land immediately. If you refuse to comply or take evasive action, you will be downed. Acknowledge receipt of this message."

  The two jets had completed their turns and were approaching Bennett head-on.

  He waved his wings in reply—then he reached for the satellite telephone.

  SO CLOSE AND yet so far.

  Cabrillo glanced out the side window before the helicopter dropped behind a hill. The van and the drop zone were less than a mile away. Even if Adams could get them to the ground alive, by the time they climbed from the Robinson and jogged to the site, the van—and the meteorite—would be gone.

  He clutched his satellite telephone to his chest and braced to hit the ground.

  THE DRIVER OF the van slammed it into gear and stepped on the gas. The rear tires pawed at the muddy soil and spit peat into
the air. Fish-tailing, he reached the pavement and started down the road to the south. He glanced quickly in his rearview mirror and found the road empty.

  ADAMS PLAYED THE Robinson with all the finesse of a concert violinist. Gauging his flare with precision, he pulled up on the cyclic at the last possible second when the helicopter was in an arc only a few feet off the ground. The change in pitch on the rotor blades bled off the last of the stored air speed and the Robinson stopped in the air and dropped the last few feet to the road on her skids. The airframe took a thump, but not a hard one. Looking over at Cabrillo, Adams exhaled in a loud burst.

  "Damn, you're good," Cabrillo said.

  "That was a rough one," Adams said, removing his headset and opening the door.

  The helicopter was blocking the road almost completely.

  "If we had a mile more fuel," Cabrillo said, opening the door and stepping out, "we'd've had them."

  The men rose to their full height on the road and stretched.

  "You'd better call Mr. Hanley and report that we've lost them," Adams said as Shea and the MG appeared over the hill and slowed because the road was blocked.

  "In a minute," Cabrillo said, glancing at the MG as it pulled to a stop.

  Shea poked his head out the side window. "You men need some help?" he asked in a Texas twang.

  Cabrillo trotted over to the MG. "You an American?"

  "Born and raised," Shea said proudly.

  "We are working directly for the president on a matter of national security," Cabrillo said quickly. "I'm going to need your car."

  "Man," Shea said, "I just bought it like three days ago."