JAMES ROLLINS - SANDSTORM

Cassandra stared ahead as the tractor ground its way inevitably forward. She attempted to pierce the gloom and windswept landscape.

Dr. al-Maaz might discover the treasure out there.

But in the end, Cassandra would take it.

She glanced back to the laptop’s screen. The storm ate away the map of the region, consuming all in its path. On the other display window, the schematic of the town and ruins glowed in the dim cabin.

Cassandra suddenly tensed. The blue ring had vanished from the map.

Dr. al-Maaz was gone.

SAFIA HUNGfrom the caving ladder. She stared up at Painter above. His flashlight blinded her. She flashed on the moment in the museum when she hung from the glass roof and he was below her, encouraging her to wait for security. Only now their roles were reversed. He was on top; she was below. Yet once again, she was the one hanging above a drop.

“Just a few more steps,” he said, his scarf whipping about his neck.

She glanced to Omaha below. He held the ladder steady. “I got you.”

Bits of crumbling frankincense cascaded around her. Boulders of it lay around Omaha’s feet, and the air in the subterranean chamber was redolent with its aroma. It had taken only a few minutes with pickaxes to perforate into the conical-shaped cave.

Once they had broken through, Omaha had lowered a candle into the cave, both to check for bad air and to light the interior. He then went down the collapsible ladder, inspecting the chamber himself. Only when he was satisfied did he let Safia climb down. With her injured shoulder, she had to loosen her left arm from her sling and carry most of her weight with her right.

She struggled the rest of the way down. Omaha’s hand found her waist, and she leaned into his grip gratefully. He helped her to the floor.

“I’m all right,” she said when he kept a hand on her elbow.

He lowered his hand.

It was much quieter out of the wind, making her feel slightly deaf.

Already Painter had mounted the ladder, coming down, moving swiftly. Soon three flashlights shone across the walls.

“It’s like being inside a pyramid,” Painter said.

Safia nodded. Three rough walls tilted up to the hole at the top.

Omaha knelt on the floor, running his fingers across the ground.

“Sandstone,” Safia said. “All three walls and floor.”

“Is that significant?” Painter asked.

“This is not natural. The walls and floor are hewn slabs of sandstone. This is a man-made structure. Built atop bedrock of limestone, I imagine. Then sand was poured around the outside. Once it was covered, they plugged the hole at the top and covered it with more loose sand.”

Omaha stared up. “And to make sure no one found it by accident, they dropped the sinkhole atop it, frightening everyone away with ghost stories.”

“But why do all that?” Painter asked. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Omaha grinned at him, looking suddenly striking to Safia. His goggles lay draped under his chin, his scarf and hood thrown back. He had not shaved in a couple of days, leaving a bronzed stubble over cheek and chin, his hair stuck up in odd places. She had forgotten how he looked in the field. Half wild, untamed. He was in his natural element, a lion on the veldt.

All that came to her with only the flash of his grin.

He loved all this-and once, she had, too. She had been as wild and uninhibited, his companion, lover, friend, colleague. Then Tel Aviv…

“What’s obvious?” Painter asked.

Omaha flung an arm. “This structure. You saw one of these today.”

Painter frowned.

Safia knew Omaha was teasing this out, not from malice, but simply from pure enjoyment and awe.

“We banged into one of these-a much smaller one-as we descended out of the mountains.”

Painter’s eyes widened, his gaze swept the space. “Those prayer stones.”

“A trilith,” Omaha said. “We’re standing inside a giant trilith.”

Safia suspected Omaha wanted to jump up and down, and truth be told, his excitement was contagious. She could not stand still herself. “We need to bring the keys down here.”

“What about the storm?” Painter cautioned.

“Screw the storm,” Omaha said. “You and the others can go and hide out in town. I’m staying here.” His eyes fell on Safia.

She nodded. “We’ve good shelter here. If someone could lower the iron artifacts, water, a few supplies, let Omaha and me figure out what to do with them. We might have the riddle solved by the time the worst of the storm blows itself out. Otherwise, we’ll lose a whole day.”

Painter sighed. “I should stay here, too.”

Omaha waved him off. “Crowe, you’re not much use to us. To use your own words from earlier, this is my area of expertise. Guns, military ops…that’s you. Here, you’re simply taking up space.”

Storm clouds built behind Painter’s blue eyes.

Safia placed a conciliatory hand on the man’s arm. “Omaha’s right. We’ve got radios if we need anything. Someone has to make sure everyone stays safe when the storm hits.”

With clear reluctance, Painter stepped to the ladder. His eyes lingered on her, glanced to Omaha, then away. He climbed up and called back. “Radio what you’ll need.” He then shooed everyone away, herding them back to the shelter of the cinder-block homes.

Safia suddenly became acutely aware of how alone she was with Omaha. What had seemed so natural a moment ago now seemed strange and uncomfortable, as if the air had suddenly soured in here. The chamber felt too cramped, claustrophobic. Maybe this wasn’t such a brilliant idea.

“Where do we start?” Omaha asked, his back to her.

Safia lifted her arm back into her sling. “We look for clues.”

She stepped away and shone her light up and down each wall. Each appeared to be the identical size and shape. The only mark was a small square hole cut halfway up one wall, perhaps a place to rest an oil lamp.

Omaha lifted a metal detector from the floor.

Safia waved him to put it down. “I doubt that’s going to-”

As soon as he flipped on its power, the detector pinged. Omaha’s eyebrows rose. “Talk about beginner’s luck.”

But as he swept the device over more of the floor, the detector continued its pinging, as if the metal lay everywhere. He lifted it to the sandstone walls. More pinging.

“Okay,” Omaha conceded, dropping the detector, getting nowhere. “I’m beginning to really hate that old queen.”

“She’s hidden a needle in a haystack.”

“All this must have been too deep for the surface detectors. Time to go low-tech.” Omaha pulled free a notepad and pencil. With compass in hand, he began mapping out the trilith. “So what about those keys?”

“What about them?”

“If they’re from the time of Ubar’s downfall, how did they end up in a statue from 200B.C? Or at Job’s tomb? Ubar fell inA.D 300.”

“Look around you,” Safia said. “They were skilled artisans in sandstone. They must have found those holy sites, balanced whatever energy source lies within these keys. Antimatter or whatever. And burrowed the artifacts into elements already at the tombs: the statue in Salalah, the prayer wall at Job’s tomb. Then they sealed them over again with sandstone with a skill that left their handiwork undetectable.”

Omaha nodded, continuing his sketching.

The bark of the radio startled them both. It was Painter. “Safia, I have the artifacts. I’ll be returning with water and a couple MRE rations. Anything else you need? The winds are becoming fierce.”

She considered, staring at the walls around her, then realized something that might come in handy. She told him.