Clive Cussler: Sacred Stone

“So,” Vanderwald said, “you must really hate these people.”

Hickman stepped on the accelerator and the cart lurched forward down the fairway to their distant balls. “I’m paying you for your knowledge, not for psychoanalysis.”

Vanderwald nodded and stared down at the photograph again. “If that’s what you think it is,” he said quietly, “you have a gem. The radioactivity is very high and it is extremely dangerous in solid or powdered form. You have a variety of options.”

Hickman pressed on the brakes as the cart approached Vanderwald’s ball. Once the cart had stopped, the South African climbed from his seat, walked around to the rear and removed a club from his bag, then approached his ball and lined up to take a shot. After a pair of practice swings, he stopped and concentrated, then made a smooth arcing swing at the ball. The ball blasted from the clubhead, gaining altitude as it traveled. A little over a hundred yards distant, it dropped to the grass less than ten yards from the green, just missing the sand trap.

“So a powdered form introduced from the air would do the trick?” Hickman asked as Vanderwald climbed back into his seat.

“Provided you could get a plane anywhere near the site.”

“Do you have a better idea?” Hickman said as he accelerated away toward his ball.

“Yes,” Vanderwald said, “striking at the heart of your enemies. But it will cost you.”

“Do you think,” Hickman asked, “that money is a problem?”

7

SOMETIMES TEMPERATURE ISas much a state of mind as a condition. See waves of heat rising from the asphalt and chances are that you will think it is hotter outside than if you see the same road lined with snow. Juan Cabrillo had no illusions as to what he was seeing. The view out the window of the turboprop as it made its way across the Denmark Strait from Iceland to Greenland was one that could chill a man’s heart and make him rub his hands together in pity. The eastern shore of Greenland was lined with mountains, and it was a desolate and barren sight. In all of the thousands of square miles that comprised eastern Greenland, there was a population of less than five thousand.

The sky was deep blue-black and roiling with clouds that held snow. One did not need to touch the white-capped waters far below to know the water temperature was below freezing and the tossing torrent was in liquid form only because of the salt content. The thin rime of ice on the wings and the edging of frost on the windshield added to the image, but the thick ice cap that covered Greenland, barely visible through the windshield ahead, lent it the most chilling and ominous feel.

Cabrillo made an involuntary shiver and stared out the side window.

“We’re ten minutes out,” the pilot noted. “The report advises wind of only ten to fifteen. It should be a cakewalk landing.”

“Okay,” Cabrillo said loudly over the noise from the engines.

The men flew along in silence as the rocky outline loomed larger.

A few minutes later Cabrillo heard and felt the turboprop slow as it neared the outer edge of the airport’s pattern. The pilot steered the plane from his crosswind leg onto the downwind leg that would take them parallel to the runway. They flew for a short distance and Cabrillo watched the pilot adjust the flight controls. A minute later the pilot turned on his base leg, then flew for a short distance and turned again onto his final approach.

“Hold on,” the pilot said, “we’ll be on the ground shortly.”

Cabrillo stared down at the frozen wasteland. The lights lining the runway cast a pale glow against the afternoon gloom. The markings on the runway came into and out of view in the blowing snow. Cabrillo caught sight of the slightly extended wind sock through the haze and growing darkness.

The airport at Kulusuk, where they were landing, served the tiny population of four hundred and was little more than a gravel runway tucked behind a mountain ridge along with a couple of small buildings. The nearest other town—Angmagssalik, or Tasiilaq, by its Inuit name—was a ten-minute helicopter ride away and had three times the population of Kulusuk.

When the turboprop was just above the runway, the pilot gave it rudder and straightened it out against the wind. A second later he kissed the runway as light as a feather. Rolling across the snow-packed gravel, he slowed in front of a metal building. Quickly running through the post-flight checklist, he shut down the engine then pointed to the building.

“I’ve got to fuel up,” he said. “You might as well head inside.”

8

AT THE SAMEinstant Cabrillo was landing at Kulusuk, the pilot of the Hawker 800XP was just shutting down his engines at the airport at Kangerlussuaq International Airport on the west coast of Greenland. Kangerlussuaq featured a six-thousand-foot-long paved runway that could handle large jets and was often used as a refueling station for cargo flights bound for Europe and beyond. The airport was nearly four hundred miles from Mount Forel but was the closest facility with a runway long enough to take the Hawker.

Clay Hughes waited while the copilot unlatched the door, then he rose from his seat. “What are your orders?” Hughes asked.

“We are to wait here until you return,” the copilot said, “or receive a call from the boss telling us to leave.”

“How do I reach you?”

The copilot handed Hughes a business card. “Here’s the number for the satellite phone the pilot carries. Just call us and give us a half hour or so to prepare.”

“Were you told how I’m supposed to get from here to where I’m going?”

The pilot poked his head out of the cockpit. “There’s a man approaching the front of the plane,” he said, motioning toward the windshield. “My guess is he’s here for you.”

Hughes placed the business card in the pocket of his parka. “All right, then.”

An icy wind was blowing across the runway, scattering the dry powdered snow like confetti on a parade route. As Hughes climbed down the stairway from the Hawker, his eyes immediately began to tear.

“You must be the party I was hired to fly out to Mount Forel,” the man said, extending his hand. “My name is Mike Neilsen.”

Hughes gave Neilsen a fake name, then stared overhead. “Are you ready to leave?”

“We can’t leave until morning,” Neilsen said. “Two rooms were arranged at the hotel for you and the pilots. We can leave at first light—provided the weather breaks.”

The men started walking toward the terminal. “Do you have enough range to fly directly to Mount Forel from here?” Hughes asked.

“I have a range of six hundred miles in still air,” Neilsen told him. “However, for safety I think we should refuel in Tasiilaq before we attempt the mountain.”

They reached the terminal building, and Neilsen opened the door then motioned for Hughes to enter. Neilsen steered Hughes toward a desk where a lone Inuit sat at an ordinary-looking metal desk. His mukluks were atop the desk, and he was sleeping.

“Isnik,” Neilsen said to the dozing man, “time to work.”

The man opened his eyes and stared at the two men in front of him. “Hey, Mike,” he said easily. “Passport, please,” he said to Hughes.

Hughes handed the official a U.S. passport bearing a false name but his actual picture. Isnik barely glanced at the document then stamped the entry.

“Purpose of visit?” he asked.

“Scientific research,” Hughes answered.

“I guess no one comes here for the weather, right?” Isnik said as he made a notation on a slip of paper on a clipboard on his desk.

“Can you ask the pilots to walk over to the hotel after they are cleared?” Neilsen asked Isnik.