Sacred Stone

“Sir,” Stone said quickly, “that’s Halifax Hickman.”

“Where’s the ship now, Stoney?” Cabrillo said.

The left side of the screen showed Stone in the control room glancing at another monitor. “She’s out of the locks and slowing to come into Port Said, Egypt.”

“George—” Cabrillo started to say.

“We should be fueled and ready by now,” Adams said, rising from his seat.

Four minutes later the Robinson lifted from the deck. It was two hundred miles from the Oregon’s position to Port Said. But the Robinson would never reach Egypt.

51

VANDERWALD’S PLANE CAUGHTa tailwind and they arrived a half hour early.

Traffic was nonexistent; it would be another hour before commuters began to clog the roads heading to work, and he arrived in front of his house only fifteen minutes after stepping off the plane. He gathered a pile of mail from the mailbox on the street, slid it under his arm and carried his single bag to the front door.

Once he was inside the entryway, he set the bag on the floor and placed the mail on a desk.

He was just turning around to close the door when a man appeared from the side and the sound of footsteps came from the hall leading to the kitchen.

“Morning, shitbird,” the first man said, pointing a gun with a silencer screwed to the barrel at Vanderwald’s head.

The man said nothing else. He simply lowered the weapon and shot Vanderwald in both knees. Vanderwald dropped to the floor and began to scream in pain. The second man was in the entryway now, and he crouched by Vanderwald, who was rolling on the floor. “Do you want to explain this invoice we found on your computer for a DC-3?”

Two minutes and two well-placed shots later, the men had their answer.

A minute later the first man delivered the coup de grace.

The two men exited by the rear door and made their way through an alley off the rear of the house, then down a side street to where they had stashed their rental car. They slid into the seats, and the passenger peeled off his gloves and dialed his cell phone.

“The target just returned from delivering a DC-3 to Port Said, Egypt. He won’t be a problem any longer.”

“I understand,” Overholt said. “You can come home now.”

“I NEED A real-time shot of the airfield at Port Said, Egypt,” Overholt said to the head of the National Security Agency. “We are looking for a DC-3 airplane.”

The head of the NSA shouted instructions to his satellite technicians.

“We’re redirecting,” he said. “Hold on.”

While he waited, Overholt reached in his desk drawer and removed his wooden paddle with the red rubber ball attached and began to furiously bang it back and forth. The wait, which took but a few minutes, seemed to stretch for hours. Finally the NSA head came back on the line.

“Stand by, we’re directing the picture to you.”

Overholt watched his monitor. An image of the airfield from high above filled the screen. Then it started to reduce itself until the DC-3 was visible. The image slowly reduced down and increased in detail. There was a man walking across the runway carrying what looked like a blanket close to his chest. He walked directly toward the DC-3 and, as Overholt watched, he began to open the side door.

“Keep on the DC-3,” Overholt ordered. “If it lifts off, try to track it along.”

“Will do,” the NSA head said, disco

HANLEY WAS SITTING in the control room with Stone when the telephone rang.

“Here’s where we’re at,” Overholt said quickly. “Ms. Hunt just disclosed to my agents that Hickman used to be a pilot. Two of my men met with the South African weapons broker a few minutes ago and he disclosed that he delivered a DC-3 for Hickman to Port Said yesterday. I have a satellite image up on the screen now that shows a man the approximate size of Hickman and matching the 3-D profile you sent, who is opening the door as we speak.”

“That’s it, then,” Hanley interrupted. “He’s going for the Dome of the Rock.”

“We can’t shoot him down or we lose Abraham’s Stone,” Overholt said. “We have to let him do the drop.”

“Okay, sir,” Hanley said, “let me warn Cabrillo.”

HANLEY HUNG UP with Overholt and radioed out to the Robinson.

“Turn it around,” Cabrillo said to Adams once Hanley explained.

Adams started a wide turn to the left.

“I want everyone but Murphy and Lincoln on the ground and at the Dome of the Rock ASAP,” Cabrillo said. “Have those two start targeting the missile battery.”

“It will be done right away,” Hanley said.

“Call back Overholt and have him keep the Israelis at bay,” Cabrillo said. “I want no planes in the air or any indication to Hickman that we are on to him.”

“Roger.”

“Then have Kevin Nixon call me back ASAP. I want to go over this thing of his one more time.”

“WHERE TO, SIR?” Adams asked.

“Downtown Jerusalem,” Cabrillo said, “the Dome of the Rock.”

Adams punched commands into the GPS as the Robinson came over the coastline again.

THE OPERATIVES ON the Oregonwere racing through the halls in preparation as Nixon made his way down the passageway to the control room. He opened the door and slipped inside.

Hanley hit the microphone button and Cabrillo instantly answered.

“I have Nixon here,” Hanley said, handing him the microphone.

“Kevin?” Cabrillo said.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure what you have created will work? If you have doubts I need to know now.”

“I calculated the weight and doubled the height estimate you gave me and it was still within limits,” Nixon said. “As you know, nothing is perfect—but I’d have to say yes, it’ll work.”

“How long does it take for it to be load bearing?”

“Less than a minute,” Nixon said.

“And you have enough of the material?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said, “I produced more than we should need.”

“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “we’re going with your idea. There is no backup plan, however, so this has to work.”

“It will, sir,” Nixon said, “but there is one problem.”

“What?”

“We could lose the stone if it strikes the Dome.”

Cabrillo was silent for a second. “I’ll take care of that,” he said.

HICKMAN HAD NOT flown a plane for more than two decades but it came back to him like it was yesterday. After he climbed into the pilot’s seat, he went through the preflight and stoked up the engines. Puffs of smoke blew from the aging power plants as they were fired, but in a few minutes they settled down to a rickety fast idle.

Staring at the control panel, he located the various switches and made sure the crude autopilot was still hooked to the controls. Then, edging the old DC-3 forward, he called the control tower for clearance.

The airfield was quiet and he was given a runway immediately.

Easing the DC-3 forward, he tried the brakes. They were spongy but worked.

Hickman didn’t mind the soft brakes—this would be the last time they would ever be used. The DC-3 was on her last journey. He rolled forward and did a slow turn onto the runway and lined up.

Checking the gauges one last time, Hickman rolled on the throttles, raced down the runway and rotated. The DC-3 lifted into the air and struggled to climb. Hickman had just over two hundred miles to travel.

At full speed, and with a slight tailwind, he’d be there in an hour.

“I HAVE THE shore boats in the water,” Stone said, “and I’ve arranged an Israeli transport helicopter to ferry the team of ten from Tel Aviv to a location near the Dome of the Rock. The chopper is too large to use our pad. That’s it there.”