channel, and the erosion that followed would quickly turn the flow into a torrent.
The first stage of the disaster would follow as the waters of Lake Nasser flooded over the top, widening the channel in an unstoppable flow, wreaking havoc on the Nile Valley below, but that was just the prelude.
The second tunnel, far deeper in the dam, would destabilize the core, scouring out a tunnel in the heart of the structure. Eventually it would give way and a huge V-shaped section would collapse backward all at once. The flood would become a tsunami.
In a way, General Aziz had done them a favor. Between the message about to be sent at Aswan and the actions Jinn was taking in the Indian Ocean, Sabah doubted any nation of the world would refuse their demands or dare to threaten them.
Would the Americans be willing to see the Hoover Dam crumble, Las Vegas flooded off the map and their southwestern states deprived of power and water at the same time? Would China allow the Three Gorges Dam a similar fate? Sabah thought not.
He flung the remote into the lake and began walking away. A half mile off, a camel waited for him. He would climb on, pull the kaffiyeh around his face and disappear into the desert like the Bedouin had done for a thousand years or more.
CHAPTER 47
KURT AUSTIN AWOKE IN A QUONSET HUT SEVERAL HOURS after being made a prisoner on Pickett’s Island. Imprisoned, exhausted and thinking he would need the rest later, Kurt had lain down on the floor almost as soon as they’d been locked up. He’d fallen asleep in moments. Upon waking, he was upset to find the whole thing hadn’t been a dream.
The men in fatigues dragged him from the hut to another hidden beneath the trees. Inside he found a distinctly military setting that seemed like a tribunal of some kind. Leilani and Ishmael stood beside him.
From behind a desk at the end of the hut another islander of Aboriginal and Polynesian appearance stood and was presiding over the hearing as one of the judges. He was taller and leaner than the man who’d found them on the beach and a fair bit older, Kurt thought. He had a tousle of gray in his black hair.
“I am the eighteenth Roosevelt of Pickett’s Island,” the man said.
“The eighteenth Roosevelt?” Kurt repeated.
“That is correct,” the judge said. “And who am I addressing? You will state your names for the record.”
“I’m the first Kurt Austin of the United States of America,” Kurt said. “At least the first one I know of.”
The judges and the others around them took a collective breath, and Kurt tried to make sense of what he was seeing and hearing.
On the march from the beach to the huts hidden in the trees they’d encountered fortifications, trenches, emplacements of heavy machine guns and then an area of ramshackle buildings, including the old Quonset huts with roofs patched and repaired with thatch and woven palm fronds.
Men in green Army fatigues stood around them. Their uniforms were in no better shape than the huts. In fact, some of them looked like badly sewn replicas. The M1 rifles they carried looked authentic enough, Kurt had several in his collection at home, but they hadn’t been used by any soldiers he knew of since the Korean War.
Beside him, Leilani gave her name, as did Ishmael. Neither did so in the manner Kurt had. Nor did they list their countries of origin.
The eighteenth Roosevelt spoke again. “You are charged with trespassing, possession of weapons and espionage. You will be held as enemy combatants and prisoners of war. Tell us how you plead.”
“Plead?” Leilani blurted out.
“Yes,” the judge said. “Are you members of the Axis forces or not?”
Leilani tugged on Kurt’s sleeve. “What’s going on? What are they talking about?”
Kurt felt like he was playing catch-up. An idea began to form in his head.
“I think this is a cargo cult,” he whispered.
“A what?”
“In the Pacific, during World War Two, islands with tribal societies were suddenly caught in the middle of the largest war ever fought. Any island of strategic value was claimed and used for one purpose or another, often times for storage of supplies that came off ships in endless quantities. Stuff the soldiers and sailors called cargo.”
He nodded at the soldiers surrounding them. “For the people in the tribal societies the sudden appearance of men from the sky or out of great ships from the sea, bringing what seemed like endless amounts of food and manufactured goods, it was like the arrival of minor gods.”
“You have to be kidding me,” she said.
“I’m not. To garner the support of those on the islands, a great deal of stuff got handed over to the islanders like manna from heaven. But when the war ended and the soldiers left, it was a huge shock. No more stuff. No more cargo coming off the ships and planes. No more big silver birds dropping out of the sky.
“In most places life went back to normal, but on some islands the tribes started looking for ways to encourage the return of the soldiers and their cargo. They became known as cargo cults.”
A second judge, who seemed lower in the pecking order than the eighteenth Roosevelt, grew impatient with Kurt’s whispering.
“The defendants will answer!” he demanded.
“We’re discussing our plea,” Kurt replied.
Kurt finished his explanation. “One common practice was mimicking what they’d seen on the American bases. Some of the cults were known to drill like soldiers in boot camp. Dressing like these guys. Carrying fake guns carved from wood. They did morning reveille, had flag-raising ceremonies, they even had ranks and medals and military- style burials. The most famous group I can recall was the John Frum cult on Vanuatu. Rumor had it, the cult got its name because the Americans would introduce themselves by saying, ‘
“That’s just great,” Leilani said sarcastically, “but we’re not in the Pacific. And these guys aren’t carrying fake wooden guns.”
“No,” Kurt said. “Something’s different here.”
He noticed other items around the room. Charts lay spread across a desk, a compass, a barometer and a sextant were nearby. He spotted an antique gray life vest and a pair of dog tags in a spot of honor on the eighteenth Roosevelt’s desk. A faded Yankees baseball cap that had to be seventy years old sat nearby.
“The time for discussion is ended,” the eighteenth Roosevelt said. “You will make your plea or we will enter one for you.”
“Not guilty,” Kurt said. “We’re Americans like you. Well, at least two of us are.”
The judges looked them over. “How can you prove it?” one of them said. “She could be a Japanese spy.”
The statement riled Leilani. “How dare you call me a spy! Even if I was part Japanese, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Are you?”
“No. I’m an American, from the state of Hawaii.”
“She means the territory of Hawaii,” Kurt interjected.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do,” Kurt insisted. “It didn’t become a state until ’fifty-nine!”
Leilani gazed at him with big chestnut-colored eyes. There was trust in that gaze, along with hope and confusion.
“Just let me do the talking,” Kurt whispered, and then turned back to the first judge. “What she means is, she grew up near Pearl Harbor. She’s been there many times to visit the
The judge seemed to accept this. “And what about you?” he asked Kurt.
“I work for the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Which is an ocean research section of the U.S. government. It was founded by Admiral James Sandecker.”
“Sandecker?” the second judge said.
