Clive Cussler: Sacred Stone

Was this worth pulling agents off another assignment? It was always risk versus reward. Overholt was awaiting a report from the CIA scientists that might shed more light on the possible threat, but for right now it looked pretty straightforward. He needed someone to travel to Greenland and secure the meteorite. Once that was done, the risk was minimal. Since his agents were tied up, he decided to call an old friend.

“Two five two four.”

“This is Overholt. How’s Iceland?”

“If I eat another piece of herring,” Cabrillo said, “I could swim to Ireland.”

“Rumor has it you’re working for the commies,” Overholt said.

“I’m sure you know about it,” Cabrillo said. “Security breach in the Ukraine.”

“Yeah,” Overholt said, “we’re working it as well.”

Cabrillo and Overholt had been partners years before. A bad deal in Nicaragua had cost Cabrillo his job with the CIA, but he’d kept Overholt out of the mess. Overholt had never forgotten the favor and over the years he’d funneled Cabrillo and the Corporation as much work as oversight would allow.

“All this terrorism,” Cabrillo noted, “has been a boon for business.”

“Got time for a little side deal?”

“How many people will it require?” Cabrillo asked, thinking about the jobs they were already contracted for.

“Just one,” Overholt said.

“Full fees?”

“As always,” Overholt said, “my employer is not cheap.”

“Not cheap, just quick to fire.”

Cabrillo had never gotten over being hung out to dry, and with good reason. Congress had raked him over the coals, and his boss at the time had done nothing to cool the fire. He had about as much compassion for politicians and bureaucrats as he did for dental drills.

“I just need someone to run over to Greenland and pick something up,” Overholt told him. “Take a day or two.”

“You picked a prime time,” Cabrillo said. “It’s freezing cold and twenty-four-hour darkness this time of year.”

“I hear the Northern Lights are pretty,” Overholt offered.

“Why not have one of your CIA drones handle this?”

“As usual, none are available. I’d rather just pay your crew and wrap it up with a minimum of hassle.”

“We still have a few days’ worth of work here,” Cabrillo said, “before we’re free.”

“Juan,” Overholt said easily, “I’m pretty sure this is a one-man job. If you could just send one of your men over there and retrieve what we need, he’d be back before the end of the summit.”

Cabrillo thought about it for a minute. The rest of his team was handling security for the emir. For the last few days, Cabrillo had been staying aboard the Oregon and tending to corporate business. He was bored and felt like a racehorse in a stall.

“I’ll take the job,” Cabrillo said. “My people have this end controlled.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Overholt said.

“I only need to fly over and pick something up, right?”

“That’s the drill.”

“What is it?”

“A meteorite,” Overholt said slowly.

“Why in the world does the CIA want a meteorite?” Cabrillo asked.

“Because we think it might be made of iridium, and iridium can be used to construct a ‘dirty bomb.’”

“What else?” Cabrillo asked, now becoming wary.

“You need to steal it from the archaeologist who found it,” Overholt said, “preferably without him knowing.”

Cabrillo paused for a second. “Have you looked in your den lately?”

“What den?” Overholt said, taking the bait.

“The den of vipers where you live,” Cabrillo said.

“So you’ll take the job?”

“Send me the details,” Cabrillo said. “I’ll leave in a few hours.”

“Don’t worry—this should be the easiest money the Corporation has made all year. Like a Christmas gift from an old friend.”

“Beware of friends bearing gifts,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

AN HOUR LATER, Juan Cabrillo was finishing his last-minute arrangements.

Kevin Nixon wiped his hands on a rag, then tossed it onto a bench in the Magic Shop. The Magic Shop was the department aboard the Oregon that handled mission fabrications, equipment storage, specialized electronics, disguises and costumes. Nixon was the shop overseer as well as creative inventor.

“Without accurate measurement,” Nixon noted, “that’s the best I can do.”

“Looks great, Kevin,” Cabrillo said, taking the object and placing it in a box that he sealed with tape.

“Take these and these,” Nixon said, handing packets to Cabrillo.

Cabrillo slid the packets into the backpack.

“Okay,” Nixon said, “you have cold-weather clothes, communications gear, survival food and whatever else I thought you might need. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Cabrillo said. “Now I need to head topside and talk to Hanley.”

Less than an hour later, after making sure Max Hanley, Cabrillo’s second in command, had the operation in Reykjavik progressing properly, Cabrillo caught a ride to the airport for his flight to Greenland. What seemed like a simple matter would grow increasingly complex.

By the time it was over, a nation would be threatened, and people would die.

6

PIETER VANDERWALD WASa merchant of death. As the former head of South Africa’s EWP, or Experimental Weapons Program, under apartheid, Vanderwald had been overseer of such horrific experiments as human chemical sterilization through food additives, the spread of toxic airborne plagues and biological weapons in public areas, and the introduction of chemical weapons into the population in liquid form.

Nuclear, chemical, biological, auditory, electrical—if it could be used to kill, Vanderwald and his team built it, bought it or designed it themselves. Their classified trials showed that a combination of agents, judiciously applied, could be used to sicken or kill thousands of the black South African population within thirty-six hours. Further studies detailed that, within a week, 99 percent of the unprotected population from the Tropic of Capricorn south, or half the entire tip of Africa, would eventually perish.

For his work Vanderwald received an award and a cash bonus of two months’ salary.

Without long-range delivery systems such as ICBMs or SCUD, and with only a limited air force to call upon, Vanderwald and his team had perfected methods of introducing the death agents into the population, then had them spread by the victims themselves. The name of the game had been seeding the water supplies, allowing the wind to carry the plague, or using tank trucks or artillery shells for dispersal.

EWP had been masters at the game, but as soon as apartheid ended they were quickly and secretly disbanded, and Vanderwald and the other scientists were left to fend for themselves.

Many of them took their payoffs and retired, but a few like Vanderwald offered their specialized skills and knowledge on the open market, where an increasingly violent world was interested in their unique talents. Countries in the Middle East, Asia and South America had sought his counsel and expertise. Vanderwald had only one rule—he didn’t work for free.

“YOU GOT A piece of that one,” Vanderwald said easily.

A light breeze was blowing from the tee box toward the hole. The temperature was an even eighty degrees. The air was as dry as a bag of flour and as clear as a pane of glass.

“The breeze helped,” Halifax Hickman said as he walked back to the cart and slid his club into the bag, then walked to the front and climbed into the driver’s seat.

There were no caddies on the course, nor any other golfers. There was just a team of security men that drifted in and out of the trees and brush, a couple of ducks in the lake and a skinny, dusty red fox that had scampered across the fairway earlier. It was strangely quiet, with the air holding memories of the year nearly passed.