“THE TRACKS END here,” Hornsby said, staring down at the snow through the open door of the SUV.
Crabtree was glancing out the side window.
“There,” she said, pointing. “There’s a packed trail.”
Hornsby stared at the thin trail. “The snow’s too soft. We’ll just get stuck.”
After calling the Oregon, which quickly dispatched George Adams in the Corporation’s Robinson helicopter, Hornsby and Crabtree started hiking along the packed trail. They found the BMW motorcycle ten minutes later. By the time Adams flew overhead they had figured out what had happened. They called him on the radio.
“We have a blast patch from a rotor blast,” Hornsby reported.
“I’ll keep an eye out for another chopper,” Adams said.
Adams flew as far from Reykjavik as he could before fuel ran low, but he saw no other helicopters. The emir had simply vanished, as if plucked from the earth by a giant hand.
14
CABRILLO DROVE THROUGH the darkness with the lights atop the Thiokol cutting a dim path through the sea of white. Five hours and fifty miles north of Kulusuk, he was finally settling into a groove. The sounds from the snowcat, which at first seemed chaotic and indistinctive, were now taking form. He could feel the pulses from the engine, the roar from the treads, and the groaning from the chassis, and he used the noises to gauge his progress. The sound and the vibrations signaled to him when the snowcat was climbing. The squeal from the treads indicated the type of surface he was crossing.
Cabrillo was becoming one with the machine.
Twenty minutes earlier, Cabrillo had first steered onto the massive ice cap that covered most of Greenland. Now, by using Campbell’s maps and detailed notes, he was guiding the Thiokol through a series of ice-covered valleys. If all continued according to plan, he would reach Mount Forel at about breakfast time in Iceland. Then he’d snatch the meteorite, load it aboard the snowcat, then cruise back to Kulusuk and have the Oregon’s helicopter pick him and the orb up. In a few days they’d have their fee and it would all be over and done with.
At least that was the plan—in and out and home.
CABRILLO FELT THE front end lighten and jammed the levers in reverse just in time. The Thiokol stopped dead in her tracks then quickly roared backward. Since leaving Kulusuk, the trip had gone smoothly. Still, the unforgiving wilderness rarely allowed such easy passage and, had Cabrillo not stopped and backed up, in a few more seconds he and the Thiokol would have been at the bottom of a wide crevasse in the ice.
Once he had reversed a safe distance away, Cabrillo slipped on his parka and climbed from the cab. Reaching up and adjusting the lights, he walked forward and stared into the abyss. The thick wall of the glacier glowed blue and green in the lights.
Staring across the rift, he estimated the gap at twelve feet. There was no way to estimate how far down the crack went before it narrowed and closed. He tightened the hood of his parka against the howling wind. A few feet more and the snowcat would have tipped into the crevasse and downward until the crack narrowed and it was pinned facedown. Even if Cabrillo had survived the fall, there was a good chance he would have been trapped in the cab with no way out. He would have frozen to death before anyone could have found him, much less mount a rescue.
Shuddering from the realization, Cabrillo walked back and climbed into the cab of the Thiokol and stared at the clock. The time was now 5 A.M., but it was still as dark as it had been all evening. He glanced at the map, then took his divider and measured the distance to Mount Forel. Thirty miles and three hours of travel time left. Reaching for the satellite phone, he dialed Campbell. Surprisingly the phone rang only once.
“Yep,” Campbell said in a clear voice.
“I just about ran into a crevasse.”
“Give me your GPS numbers,” Campbell said.
Cabrillo read them off and waited while Campbell consulted his map in Kulusuk.
“Looks like you took a wrong turn about a mile back,” Campbell told him, “and went left instead of right. You’re up against Nunuk Glacier. Backtrack and skirt the edge of the glacier. That will take you over a small rise and down into the lowland. From there you could see Forel if it was clear and not pitch-black outside.”
“You sure?” Cabrillo asked.
“Positive. I’ve been up the canyon you’re in before—it’s a dead end.”
“Back about a mile and turn left,” Cabrillo reiterated.
“That would be a right turn to you,” Campbell said quickly, “you’ve changed directions.”
“Then I follow the edge of the glacier?”
“Yes, but right now, while you’re stopped, I want you to climb out and adjust the light on the driver’s side sideways. That way, once you reach the edge of the glacier, the light will illuminate the edge. The reflection will look like jade or sapphires—just glance occasionally to the side to check your progress. Once the edge of the glacier recedes you’ll crest a ridge and start down again. That will signal that you’re free of Nunuk Glacier. Then you’ll have a straight shot up the side of Mount Forel. It’s steep but the old Thiokol can make it—I’ve done it before.”
“Thanks,” Cabrillo said. “Are you going to be able to make it a few hours more if I need you? Keeping it on the straight and narrow?”
“I’m just sipping enough to get by,” Campbell said. “I’ll be here if you need me.”
“Good,” Cabrillo said as he shut the telephone off.
Climbing from the cab again, he reached up to the roof of the Thiokol and adjusted the light to the side. Then he climbed back in, shifted into first, and spun the snowcat 180 degrees on her tracks. Driving slowly, he found the edge of the glacier a few yards away and started following along.
Mount Forel was not far away, but in the snow and darkness it was still hidden.
Cabrillo needed to reach the mountain and retrieve her secret. But there was someone else with the same plan—and he didn’t follow the same rules for fair play as the Corporation. The two of them were bound to collide.
THE EMIR FELT the helicopter slow as Al-Khalifa lined the Kawasaki up over the fantail of the Akbar, and then carefully set her down on the landing pad. Once deckhands had chained down the skids and the rotor blade was secured, Al-Khalifa walked around, unlocked the door and dragged him into the main salon. The emir’s eyes were still taped but he could hear what sounded like a half dozen Arab voices. The air in the salon smelled of gunpowder, oil, and a strange, sweet almond odor.
Hustled down a set of steps to a lower deck, the emir was unceremoniously tossed on a bed and had his hands and feet bound together with thick tape. He lay on his back like a trussed chicken. The emir heard Al-Khalifa order a guard posted outside. Then he was left alone to ponder an unknown fate.
Other than the fact that the skin on his face had started sweating from the heat in the cabin, the man was not overly concerned. If Al-Khalifa was going to kill him he would have done it already. That, and he knew his friends at the Corporation would seek him out soon. If only he could scratch his nose under the plastic—then he’d feel better.
“ATTACH THE WEAPONS pod,” Al-Khalifa said as he walked back into the main salon. “I need to fly to the mountain as soon as possible.”
Four of the men walked outside and started the process. The installation went slow—wind, rain and snow were raking the Akbar’s deck, but the men were trained and unrelenting. Twenty-seven minutes later their leader walked back in, wiping snow off his gloves.
“The pod is installed,” he said to Al-Khalifa.