Sacred Stone Read online

  "I want gold," Hughes said.

  "Gold it is," Hickman said as he disconnected.

  AN HOUR LATER a Raytheon Hawker 800XP touched down at the Missoula airport. Hughes shut off the engine of his restored 1972 International Scout. Reaching into the rear, he unzipped a bag and checked his firearms once again. Satisfied all was in order, he zipped the bag closed and lifted it out onto the ground. Then he closed the rear gate, bent down and armed the explosive device that he used as a burglar alarm.

  If anyone messed with his vehicle while he was gone, the Scout would explode, hiding any evidence of his ownership as well as his personal papers. Hughes was nothing if not paranoid. He hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and made his way toward the jet.

  Forty-seven minutes later the jet crossed into Canada on a north-northeast course.

  Chapter 5

  THE DAY AFTER the e-mail from Greenland was intercepted, Langston Overholt IV was sitting in his office at CIA headquarters in Virginia, staring at a picture of the meteorite. He glanced at a report on iridium, then stared at his list of agents. As usual he was shorthanded. Reaching into a bowl on his desk, he removed a tennis ball and methodically began bouncing it against his wall and catching it when it returned. The repetition relaxed him.

  Was this worth pulling agents off another assignment? It was always risk versus reward. Overholt was awaiting a report from the CIA scientists that might shed more light on the possible threat, but for right now it looked pretty straightforward. He needed someone to travel to Green­land and secure the meteorite. Once that was done, the risk was minimal. Since his agents were tied up, he decided to call an old friend.

  "Two five two four."

  "This is Overholt. How's Iceland?"

  "If I eat another piece of herring," Cabrillo said, "I could swim to Ireland."

  "Rumor has it you're working for the commies," Overholt said.

  "I'm sure you know about it," Cabrillo said. "Security breach in the Ukraine."

  "Yeah," Overholt said, "we're working it as well."

  Cabrillo and Overholt had been partners years before. A bad deal in Nicaragua had cost Cabrillo his job with the CIA, but he'd kept Overholt out of the mess. Overholt had never forgotten the favor and over the years he'd funneled Cabrillo and the Corporation as much work as over-sight would allow.

  "All this terrorism," Cabrillo noted, "has been a boon for business."

  "Got time for a little side deal?"

  "How many people will it require?" Cabrillo asked, thinking about the jobs they were already contracted for.

  "Just one," Overholt said.

  "Full fees?"

  "As always," Overholt said, "my employer is not cheap."

  "Not cheap, just quick to fire."

  Cabrillo had never gotten over being hung out to dry, and with good reason. Congress had raked him over the coals, and his boss at the time had done nothing to cool the fire. He had about as much compassion for politicians and bureaucrats as he did for dental drills.

  "I just need someone to run over to Greenland and pick something up," Overholt told him. "Take a day or two."

  "You picked a prime time," Cabrillo said. "It's freezing cold and twenty-four-hour darkness this time of year."

  "I hear the Northern Lights are pretty," Overholt offered.

  "Why not have one of your CIA drones handle this?"

  "As usual, none are available. I'd rather just pay your crew and wrap it up with a minimum of hassle."

  "We still have a few days' worth of work here," Cabrillo said, "before we're free."

  "Juan," Overholt said easily, "I'm pretty sure this is a one-man job. If you could just send one of your men over there and retrieve what we need, he'd be back before the end of the summit."

  Cabrillo thought about it for a minute. The rest of his team was handling security for the emir. For the last few days, Cabrillo had been staying aboard the Oregon and tending to corporate business. He was bored and felt like a racehorse in a stall.

  "I'll take the job," Cabrillo said. "My people have this end controlled."

  "Whatever floats your boat," Overholt said.

  "I only need to fly over and pick something up, right?"

  "That's the drill."

  "What is it?"

  "A meteorite," Overholt said slowly.

  "Why in the world does the CIA want a meteorite?" Cabrillo asked.

  "Because we think it might be made of iridium, and iridium can be used to construct a 'dirty bomb.'"

  "What else?" Cabrillo asked, now becoming wary.

  "You need to steal it from the archaeologist who found it," Overholt said, "preferably without him knowing."

  Cabrillo paused for a second. "Have you looked in your den lately?"

  "What den?" Overholt said, taking the bait.

  "The den of vipers where you live," Cabrillo said.

  "So you'll take the job?"

  "Send me the details," Cabrillo said. "I'll leave in a few hours."

  "Don't worry—this should be the easiest money the Corporation has made all year. Like a Christmas gift from an old friend."

  "Beware of friends bearing gifts," Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

  AN HOUR LATER, Juan Cabrillo was finishing his last-minute arrangements.

  Kevin Nixon wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it onto a bench in the Magic Shop. The Magic Shop was the department aboard the Oregon that handled mission fabrications, equipment storage, specialized electronics, disguises and costumes. Nixon was the shop overseer as well as creative inventor.

  "Without accurate measurement," Nixon noted, "that's the best I can do."

  "Looks great, Kevin," Cabrillo said, taking the object and placing it In a box that he sealed with tape.

  "Take these and these," Nixon said, handing packets to Cabrillo.

  Cabrillo slid the packets into the backpack.

  "Okay," Nixon said, "you have cold-weather clothes, communications gear, survival food and whatever else I thought you might need. Good luck."

  "Thanks," Cabrillo said. "Now I need to head topside and talk to Hanley."

  Less than an hour later, after making sure Max Hanley, Cabrillo's second in command, had the operation in Reykjavik progressing properly, Cabrillo caught a ride to the airport for his flight to Greenland. What seemed like a simple matter would grow increasingly complex.

  By the time it was over, a nation would be threatened, and people would die.

  Chapter 6

  PIETER VANDERWALD WAS a merchant of death. As the former head of South Africa's EWP, or Experimental Weapons Program, under apartheid, Vanderwald had been overseer of such horrific experiments as human chemical sterilization through food additives, the spread of toxic airborne plagues and biological weapons in public areas, and the introduction of chemical weapons into the population in liquid form.

  Nuclear, chemical, biological, auditory, electrical—if it could be used to kill, Vanderwald and his team built it, bought it or designed it themselves. Their classified trials showed that a combination of agents, judiciously applied, could be used to sicken or kill thousands of the black South African population within thirty-six hours. Further studies detailed that, within a week, 99 percent of the unprotected population from the Tropic of Capricorn south, or half the entire tip of Africa, would eventually perish.

  For his work Vanderwald received an award and a cash bonus of two months' salary.

  Without long-range delivery systems such as ICBMs or SCUD, and with only a limited air force to call upon, Vanderwald and his team had perfected methods of introducing the death agents into the population, then had them spread by the victims themselves. The name of the game had been seeding the water supplies, allowing the wind to carry the plague, or using tank trucks or artillery shells for dispersal.

  EWP had been masters at the game, but as soon as apartheid they were quickly and secretly disbanded, and Vanderwald and the other scientists were left to fend for themselves. Many of them took their payoffs a
nd retired, but a few like Vanderwald offered their specialized skills and knowledge on the open market, where an increasingly violent world was interested in their unique talents. Countries in the Middle East, Asia and South America had sought his counsel and expertise. Vanderwald had only one rule—he didn't work for free.

  "YOU GOT A piece of that one," Vanderwald said easily.

  A light breeze was blowing from the tee box toward the hole. The temperature was an even eighty degrees. The air was as dry as a bag of flour and as clear as a pane of glass.

  "The breeze helped," Halifax Hickman said as he walked back to the cart and slid his club into the bag, then walked to the front and climbed Into the driver's seat.

  There were no caddies on the course, nor any other golfers. There was just a team of security men that drifted in and out of the trees and brush, a couple of ducks in the lake and a skinny, dusty red fox that had scampered across the fairway earlier. It was strangely quiet, with the air holding memories of the year nearly passed.

  "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?"

  Chapter 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."

  Chapter 8

  AT THE SAME instant Cabrillo was landing at Kulusuk, the pilot of the Hawker 8OOXP 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.

  Chapter 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.