“To make sure the DC-3 destroys the Dome,” Hanley said, “he has to know he’ll need to climb up several thousand feet then dive down.”
“We entered the climb rate of the DC-3 into the computer,” Murphy said, “and set the parameters for two thousand feet extra elevation. That takes the flight out here.”
Murphy pointed to the monitor.
“Perfect,” Hanley said.
Murphy smiled. “Me and Lincoln think so too.”
HICKMAN WAS STILL nine minutes away when Adams passed over the courtyard surrounding the Dome of the Rock and lowered the helicopter down to where Nixon was waving. Nixon raced under the spinning rotor blade and handed Cabrillo the end of the rope through the open door, then raced back away.
“Slow and steady,” Cabrillo said through the headset.
“That’s my middle name,” Adams said confidently.
Carefully lifting off, Adams manipulated the controls with all the finesse of a surgeon. Bringing the Robinson up slowly, Adams crabbed sideways as Cabrillo played out the rope. A thin web began to form over the Dome. Reaching the far side, Adams hovered a few feet off the ground and Cabrillo dropped the end of the ladder. Meadows and Ross each took a side and pulled out the slack, then stood there holding the ladder taut. Nets hung down from the rope ladders.
“Now if you could drop me off on the top,” Cabrillo said, smiling across the cockpit, “I’d appreciate it.”
Adams lifted up slowly and carefully came close to the Dome. Cabrillo opened the door cautiously and stepped out onto the skid. Then with a little wave at Adams, he stepped across and grabbed the rope rung of the ladder.
Adams carefully backed away then landed on a street nearby.
Cabrillo was atop the Dome. He stared up at a large silver plane approaching in the distance. He pulled the nets as tight as he could.
“GO, GO, GO, go, go,” Seng shouted to the seven members of the team.
They quickly began to spread the powder across the courtyard like farmers of old sowing seeds. Once they were finished, they ran to the fire hoses and waited for the orders to spray.
Nixon and Gannon were manning a hose. Nixon had the nozzle, Gannon was behind him holding the hose in place. “You’re sure this will work, old buddy?” Gannon asked.
“It’ll work,” Nixon said. “It’s the cleanup that will be a problem.”
HICKMAN DIDN’T NOTICE that no Israeli jets had been scrambled to intercept him. He simply thought that his coming in low had brought the DC-3 under the radar. Setting the autopilot, he walked back to the cargo bay and opened the door.
Abraham’s Stone was still wrapped in the blanket. Hickman removed it and clutched it in his hands.
“Good riddance,” he said quietly, “to you and all you stand for.”
Through the side window he could see the mosque complex approaching. He had calculated that at the speed the DC-3 traveled, to hit the Dome itself he would need to toss out the meteorite just as the nose of the plane reached the edge of the first wall.
Hickman would never see the stone strike the Dome, but that’s why he had cameras.
“NOW, NOW, NOW,” Seng shouted as he heard the noise of the approaching DC-3.
The teams at the hoses opened the nozzles and sprayed the powder on the ground. The water was the catalyst. As soon as it hit the dust, the tiny grains of powder began to expand and interlock into a dense foam material. The dust grew to nearly two feet in height. Gannon felt himself rise in the air as the spray from the hose he was handling wet the dust beneath his feet. The weight of his body made an imprint of his feet in the foam.
HICKMAN STARED OUT the side window and timed the release. As soon as he saw the wall around the mosque he tossed out Abraham’s Stone. Then he ran back toward the cockpit to start his climb for the suicide run while the heavy stone dropped through the air, end over end, toward the Dome.
IF THIS HAD been a movie, Cabrillo, clutching the ladder, would have batted the stone away from the Dome and saved the day. Or Abraham’s Stone would have landed in the net and been saved. As it was, Cabrillo’s presence atop his perch would prove unnecessary.
Hickman’s toss fell short.
Had the foam not been applied to the courtyard, the stone would have shattered as it struck the marble flooring. Instead, it tumbled down and stuck in the foam a good ten feet from the edge of the Dome. Penetrating the surface of the foam almost a foot, it lay cradled and protected like a fine firearm in a custom-built case.
Seng raced over and stared down at the stone. “Nobody touches it,” he shouted. “We have a Muslim CIA agent outside that will handle it.”
SENG REACHED FOR his radio and called out to Hanley on the
“I’ll explain later, but the stone is secured,” Seng said. “Could you radio Adams to pick the chairman back up?”
Hanley turned to Stone. “Make the call, please.”
While Stone was on the radio, Hanley stood alongside Murphy and Lincoln at the firing station. One deck above off the rear of the
The DC-3 was traveling at three miles per minute. By the time Hickman had made his way back to the cockpit and gotten back into the pilot’s seat to start the climb, he was ten miles past Jerusalem and about an equal distance from the Dead Sea.
Pulling back on the yoke, Hickman climbed higher.
“Thirty more seconds and any wreckage will be away from any Palestinian settlements,” Lincoln said.
Hickman was far from an innocent; still, the Corporation were not murderers. If Hickman continued on toward Jordan, they’d try to catch him on the ground there. If he started a turn, they would have no choice. The only reason Hickman would turn back toward Jerusalem was to make a suicide run.
