there by the steps of his plane, Jack wondered if he would ever see his friend again.
ZANZIBAR
OFF THE COAST OF TANZANIA
DECEMBER 13, 2007, 2345 HOURS
4 DAYS TO SECOND DEADLINE
IT WAS ALMOST midnight when Jack and the twins arrived in Zanzibar in the Cessna.
Zanzibar.
A small island off the east coast of Africa, in the 19th century it had been the haunt of pirates, slave traders, and smugglers—a decadent and lawless hideaway for those with little respect for the law.
In the 21st century, little had changed.
Except for the glitzy waterfront hotels that serviced tourists on their way home from Kilimanjaro, Zanzibar largely retained its centuries-old seaminess: modern-day pirates lurked in back-alley drinking holes while South African fishermen frequented the many gambling dens and brothels, engaging the services of cut-price African native girls in between blackjack hands. Old pirate caves on the island’s ferocious eastern coast were still used.
It was to this ferocious eastern coast that Jack and the twins headed in a crappy old Peugeot rental car, heading for a long-abandoned lighthouse on a remote headland.
They passed through a barbed-wire gate and drove up a long overgrown driveway to the front door of the lighthouse.
Not a soul could be seen anywhere nearby.
“Are you sure about this?” Lachlan asked nervously. He fingered the Glock pistol that Jack had given him.
“I’m sure,” Jack said.
Stopping the car, he got out and walked over to the main door of the lighthouse. The twins followed him, eyeing the waist-high ring of uncut grass that encircled the structure’s base.
Jack rapped on the door three times.
No answer.
The door did not open.
No sound but the crashing of the waves.
“Who are you!” an African-accented voice demanded suddenly from behind them.
The twins whirled. Lachlan whipped up his gun.
“Lachlan, no!” Jack leapt forward and pushed the gun down.
The move saved Lachlan’s life.
They were surrounded.
Somehow, as they’d stood at the base of the lighthouse, no less than ten Tanzanians—all with deep black skin and all wearing navy blue military fatigues and armed with brand-new M16 assault rifles—had crept up on them. Absolutely soundlessly.
Jack recognized the leader of the group.
“Inigo, is that you? It’s me, Jack. Jack West. These are my friends, Lachlan and Julius Adamson, a couple of net jockeys from Scotland.”
The Tanzanian did not acknowledge Jack’s introduction at all.
He just glared at the twins.
“Net jockeys?” he said, frowning fiercely. “Computer persons?”
“Y-yes,” Lachlan said, gulping.
The Tanzanian was still frowning darkly. He had a line of raised traditional markings on his forehead.
“You play Warcraft on Internet?” he demanded.
“Er, yeah…” Julius said.
The African pointed at their “COW LEVEL”T-shirts. “The cow level. You play computer game, Diablo II?”
“Well…yes…”
Abruptly the leader’s dark frown became a broad smile, showing a mouthful of enormous white teeth. He spun to face Jack:
“Huntsman, I have heard of this cow level, but for the life of me, I just cannot get to it!” He turned to the twins: “You two will show me how to find it, you…cowboys!”
Jack smiled.
“Nice to see you, too, Inigo. But I’m afraid we’re in a bit of a hurry. We need to see the Sea Ranger immediately.”
THEY WERE taken into the lighthouse, where instead of going up, they went down—first through a dusty old cellar and then through a storage basement. In this storage basement was a hidden staircase that went even farther down, delving deep into the headland before emerging in a giant cave at sea level.
Sometime in the distant past—probably by pirates in the 1800s—the cave had been fitted with two wooden
