“Have Huxley call me,” Cabrillo said. “I need some medical advice.”
“You got it,” Hanley said as he rang off.
ON BOARD THE Akbar, high-powered landing lights were flicked on to light the landing pad.
Off to the side, a pair of Arabs watched as Al-Khalifa lined up over the fantail then eased forward and touched down. As soon as the helicopter’s skids touched the deck, the two men raced under the spinning rotor blade and secured the skids to the deck.
The blade slowed as Al-Khalifa pulled on the rotor brake, and once it was stopped he climbed out and walked around to the passenger side. Taking the box in his hands, he walked to the door to the main salon and waited until it was opened.
He walked inside and approached the long table and sat the box on the top.
As he unfastened the clasp and flipped the lid open, the terrorists gathered around and stared at the orb in silence. Then Al-Khalifa reached down and lifted the heavy sphere and held it over his head.
“A million more infidels dead,” he said grandly, “and London in ruins.”
“Praise be to Allah,” the terrorists shouted.
“ONE MILE DEAD ahead,” the captain of the Free Enterprise said, “moving at fifteen knots.”
A total of nine men dressed in black waterproof uniforms were clustered in the pilothouse. The men were armed with rifles on slings, handguns, and grenades.
The Free Enterprise was dead in the water. Outside on her rear deck, a large black bulletproof inflatable boat was being lowered over the side. Fifty-millimeter machine guns were mounted on the bow and stern of the inflatable. Mounted to the rigid fiberglass floor of the vessel was a high-performance gasoline engine.
The boat disappeared over the side and splashed into the water.
“We go in at the stern,” the leader said, “neutralize the targets, retrieve the meteorite, and then get out again. I want us back on board in five minutes tops.”
“Will there be any friendlies?” one of the men asked.
“One,” the leader said, handing out a photograph.
“What do we do with him?”
“Protect him if you can,” the leader said, “but not if it means your own life.”
“Leave him on board?”
“He’s of no use to us,” the leader said, “now let’s go.”
The men filed out of the pilothouse and onto the rear deck. They walked in single file down a set of steps built along the hull to a small platform where the inflatable was docked and idling. As soon as the men were all aboard, one of them took up position behind the wheel, engaged the drive and steered away from the Free Enterprise.
At a speed of fifty-five knots it did not take long for the inflatable to reach the Akbar.
Once they reached the rear of the yacht, the man operating the inflatable held his vessel against the rear swim platform of the steaming Akbar with a judicious application of power. The men stepped onto the platform and the captain of the inflatable backed away a short distance and kept pace with the yacht. Slowly the eight men made their way topside.
THE PRISONER IN the cabin on the Akbar had managed to free his hands but not his legs. Hobbling over to the toilet, he drained his bladder and then sat back on the bed and refastened his hands. If someone didn’t show up soon to rescue him, he’d have to take matters into his own hands. He was hungry, and when he got hungry he got mad.
ONE DECK ABOVE, the only sound that could be heard was a light thumping of boots covered by felt liners as the men from the Free Enterprise spread out throughout the Akbar. In a few seconds, the sounds of light popping like lazy popcorn filtered through the ship. That was followed by the sound of bodies hitting the deck.
A few seconds later the door to the prisoner’s cabin was flung open and a man in a black hood shined a light in his face. The man in the hood looked at him again, consulted a photograph in his hand and then closed the door. The prisoner began to tug at the coating covering his face.
The Akbar began to slow, then stopped.
Moving rapidly, four of the men weighed down the terrorists’ bodies, starting with their leader, and dumped them over the side while the other half of the team cleaned up the blood. Four minutes and forty seconds after first standing on the deck of the Akbar, they were filing down to the swim platform once again.
The leader of the team from the Free Enterprise carefully placed a box in the rear of the inflatable and the men filed back aboard. The driver engaged the throttles and the black boat skimmed quickly across the water toward her mother ship.
A frozen pizza would have taken longer to cook than the assault on the Akbar.
Once the team was back on board and the inflatable was stowed on deck, the captain of the Free Enterprise pulled alongside the Akbar. The fog had cleared a little and the Akbar’s lights glinted off the black water of the ocean. The yacht was bobbing in place like a boat anchored over a reef. The difference was that here the water was too cold to dive—plus there was no one left aboard, save one, who could come out to play.
The Free Enterprise steamed past, then the captain gradually increased its speed.
18
ADAMS HOVERED THE Robinson helicopter above Mount Forel, then used the remote speaker to send out the sound of an air horn. He waited a few minutes then caught sight of a green glowing light from below. Flying a short distance toward the light, he sounded the air horn again to give Cabrillo warning to move away from the landing pad, then he set the helicopter down on the snow. Once the rotor blade had stopped spinning, he climbed out.
“Mr. Chairman,” he said as Cabrillo walked over, “I’m glad I found you. It’s as black as a sack of licorice out here.”
“Everyone get out of Iceland safely?”
“It all went according to plan,” Adams said.
“That’s one bright spot,” Cabrillo said. “Now, how are we for weight?”
“With the two of us aboard and fuel, we still have a few hundred pounds left over. Why do you ask?”
“We have another passenger,” Cabrillo said.
“Who?”
“A civilian who was shot,” Cabrillo told him. “I think it was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Is he dead or alive?”
“I’m not sure, but it doesn’t look good,” Cabrillo said, pointing toward the entrance to the cave. “Go into the cave, then carry him out to the helicopter. I’ll move the snowcat over and begin refueling.”
Adams nodded and started walking up the hill. At the entrance he stopped and stared north. Along the horizon blue and green lights flickered and danced like wispy sheets of fabric illuminated by dancing light. The plasma that comprised the Northern Lights was putting on a show, and Adams felt a chill from the unnatural scene.
Turning on his heels, he entered the cave.
CABRILLO CLIMBED INTO the snowcat and drove it over to the helicopter. He began to transfer the fuel using a hand-cranked pump on the top of the spare tank. He was just finishing filling the Robinson’s second tank when Adams appeared through the darkness carrying Ackerman, who was still inside the sleeping bag. Carefully placing the archaeologist into the rear seat, he attached a seat belt then walked around to Cabrillo.
“I’ve got some bottles of octane booster that need to be added,” he said.
“Give them to me and I’ll put them in. I want you to get Huxley on the radio and ask her if there is anything we can do for our passenger. Explain that he has a serious bullet wound and he’s lost a lot of blood.”