Sacred Stone

“Who?”

“A civilian who was shot,” Cabrillo told him. “I think it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Is he dead or alive?”

“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look good,” Cabrillo said, pointing toward the entrance to the cave. “Go into the cave, then carry him out to the helicopter. I’ll move the snowcat over and begin refueling.”

Adams nodded and started walking up the hill. At the entrance he stopped and stared north. Along the horizon blue and green lights flickered and danced like wispy sheets of fabric illuminated by dancing light. The plasma that comprised the Northern Lights was putting on a show, and Adams felt a chill from the unnatural scene.

Turning on his heels, he entered the cave.

CABRILLO CLIMBED INTO the snowcat and drove it over to the helicopter. He began to transfer the fuel using a hand-cranked pump on the top of the spare tank. He was just finishing filling the Robinson’s second tank when Adams appeared through the darkness carrying Ackerman, who was still inside the sleeping bag. Carefully placing the archaeologist into the rear seat, he attached a seat belt then walked around to Cabrillo.

“I’ve got some bottles of octane booster that need to be added,” he said.

“Give them to me and I’ll put them in. I want you to get Huxley on the radio and ask her if there is anything we can do for our passenger. Explain that he has a serious bullet wound and he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Adams nodded then reached into a storage compartment and removed the two bottles of octane booster and handed them to Cabrillo. Then he climbed into the pilot’s seat and turned on the radio. He climbed back out once he had completed the call, then reached back into the storage compartment and retrieved a collapsible snow shovel. As Cabrillo finished the refueling, Adams began shoveling snow into Ackerman’s sleeping bag.

“She said to ice him down and slow his heartbeat,” Adams said as Cabrillo walked over, “to induce hypothermia and put him into a suspended state.”

“How long until we reach the Oregon?” Cabrillo asked.

“They were steaming at full speed when I took off,” Adams noted, “so that will shave some time off the return trip. If I had to guess, I’d estimate about an hour.”

Cabrillo nodded and brushed some snow from his eyebrows. “I’ll move the snowcat,” he said, “you fire this up and get everything to operating temperatures.”

“Got it.”

Four minutes later, Cabrillo climbed into the passenger seat of the idling helicopter. A few seconds more and Adams engaged the clutch and set the rotor blades spinning, and a minute after that he lifted the helicopter from the snow.

ABOARD THE OREGON, Hanley was working on the plan for the assault on the Akbar. Off to one side of the control room, Eddie Seng was sketching out notes on a yellow pad. Eric Stone walked over to where Hanley was seated and pointed at the large monitor on the wall. The image showed Greenland’s coastline, the location of the Akbar, and the course the Oregon was steaming.

“Sir,” he said, pointing, “the Akbar has not moved in fifteen minutes. The same, however, cannot be said for the meteorite. If the signal from the sand is correct, it’s moving farther away.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Hanley noted. “Could we be receiving a false reading?”

Stone nodded affirmatively. “With the Northern Lights acting up and the curvature of the earth this far north, we could be getting a skip in signals off the ionosphere.”

“How long until we reach the Akbar?” Hanley asked.

“We were about an hour away,” Stone said. “Now that she’s stopped, it shaves ten minutes or so off that estimate.”

“Eddie,” Hanley asked, “can you have your men ready earlier?”

“Sure,” Seng said, “the first man aboard does most of the work. Once he sprays the paralytic agent into the air duct and the bad guys go to sleep, the rest is just mopping up and securing the ship.”

Stone had walked back to his chair. He was studying a radio frequency graph that showed signal strengths on the various bands. “We’re picking up something down low,” he said.

“See if you can tune it in,” Hanley ordered.

Stone fiddled with a dial then pushed a button on the console to boost the receiving strength. Then he flicked on the speaker.

“Portland, Salem, Bend,” a voice said, “okay to transmit.”

ON THE AKBAR, the prisoner had managed to free his hands again and his legs. Listening at the door of his cabin he’d heard nothing, so he’d cracked the door and peered out. There was no one in the hall. He’d slowly searched the ship from stem to stern and found it empty.

Then he had tugged off his latex mask.

He’d made his way to the pilothouse and had reached for the radio.

“Portland, Salem, Bend,” he repeated, “okay to transmit.”

ON THE OREGON, Hanley reached for the microphone to answer. “This is Oregon, identify.”

“Six, eleven, fifty-nine.”

“Murph,” Hanley asked, “what are you doing on the radio?”

“THAT WAS A bold plan,” Adams said as he flew the helicopter through the black sky, “using a double for the emir of Qatar.”

“We’ve known Al-Khalifa was planning a move on the emir for some time,” Cabrillo said, “and the emir went along with our little operation. He wants Al-Khalifa out of the picture as much as we do.”

“You eaten lately?” Adams asked. “I brought some sandwiches and cookies plus some milk. They’re in a bag on