“Not positive,” Bennett answered, “but if I do, I think I can outrun him. The problem is, once I land, I’ll only have a half hour or so to make the transfer. Is that a problem?”
The man on the other end of the line thought for a moment before answering. “I’ll work something out,” he said, “and call you back.”
“I’ll be here,” Bennett said, disconnecting.
Adjusting the trim to keep the Cessna flying straight, Bennett scanned the instruments, paying particular attention to the fuel gauge. It was going to be close. Holding the yoke as the Cessna was lifted up by a thermal current, he waited until the plane settled back down to his cruising altitude. Then he reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee from a battered Stanley thermos he’d owned for close to twenty years.
“I’LL CALL OVERHOLT,” Hanley said, “and have him get the British to scramble some fighter jets and force the plane down. That should wrap this up.”
“Just make sure he has the British wait until the Cessna is over land,” Cabrillo said. “I don’t want to lose the meteorite now.”
“I’ll make sure he understands that,” Hanley said.
“How far are you from port in the Faeroes?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Did the Danes impound the yacht yet?” Cabrillo asked.
“According to the last message from Washington, they don’t have the manpower,” Hanley said. “But they have a policeman on the hill near the airport watching the ship—that’s the best they can do for right now.”
Cabrillo thought for a second. “Has anyone recovered the nuclear bomb?”
“Not according to my last intelligence.”
“It might be on the yacht,” Cabrillo noted.
“The source Overholt had claims it was loaded on an old cargo ship.”
“Whoever these guys are,” Cabrillo said, “they seem to like to switch at sea. There’s a good chance that they met up with the cargo ship somewhere and then took the weapon on board.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“Let’s recommend to Overholt that the yacht be allowed to leave port,” Cabrillo said. “Keep the Oregonaway from it—let’s let the British or American navy deal with the problem. They can board the yacht at sea—there’s a lot less risk that way.”
“I’ll call Overholt now,” Hanley said, “and report our recommendations.”
The telephone went dead, and Cabrillo sat back in his seat. He had no way of knowing that the meteorite and the nuclear bomb were possessed by two separate factions.
One group was planning a strike for Islam.
The second was planning a strike against Islam.
Hatred fueled them both.
27
AS SOON ASthe Gulfstream landed in Las Vegas, Truitt left Gunderson and Pilston with the plane and hailed a cab. The weather was clear and sunny with a light breeze blowing down from the mountains outside Las Vegas. The dry air seemed to magnify the surroundings, and the mountains, though miles distant, seemed close enough to touch.
Tossing his bag on the rear seat, Truitt climbed in the front with the driver.
“Where to?” the driver asked in a voice that sounded like Sean Connery with a smoker’s hack.
“Dreamworld,” Truitt answered.
The driver put the cab in gear and sped off away from the airport.
“Have you stayed at Dreamworld before?” the cabbie asked as they were nearing the famed Strip.
“Nope,” Truitt said.
“It’s a high-tech paradise,” the driver said, “a man-created environment.”
The driver slowed and entered the rear of a line of cabs and personal automobiles waiting to pull into the entrance. “Be sure to catch the lightning storm out on the rear grounds this evening,” he said, turning sideways to look at Truitt. “The display is every hour on the hour.”
The line moved forward and the driver steered the cab onto a driveway leading toward the hotel. A few feet off the street, he drove through a portal with plastic strips hanging to the ground that reminded Truitt of the entrances to food cold-storage warehouses.
Now they were inside a tropical forest. A jungle canopy stretched overhead and the inside of the cab’s windows began to fog from the humidity. The driver pulled in front of the main entrance and stopped.
“When you get out,” he said, “watch for the birds. I had a customer last week who claimed he was dive-bombed and pecked.”
Truitt nodded and paid the driver. Then he climbed out, opened the rear door and retrieved his bag, then closed the door again and motioned for the cabbie to pull away. Turning, he watched as a bellman shooed away a thick black snake from the main doors with a broom. Then he glanced up at the canopy overhead. There was no sunlight visible, and the sound of birds chirping filled the space.
Lifting his bag, Truitt walked over to the bellman’s stand.
“Welcome to Dreamworld,” the bellman said. “Are you checking in?”
“Yes,” Truitt said, handing the bellman a fake driver’s license from Delaware and a credit card that was tied to the false identity.
The bellman swiped both through a machine and then took an adhesive coded strip that printed out and slapped it on Truitt’s bag. “We will send your bag to your room on our conveyor system,” he said efficiently. “The room will be ready and the bag will be in the room”—he paused to stare at the computer screen—“in ten minutes. There is a front desk inside if you wish to arrange casino credit or for anything else you might need. Have a great stay here at Dreamworld.”
Truitt handed the bellman a ten, took the card key for the door and walked toward the entrance. The twin glass doors opened automatically, and what Truitt saw inside astounded him. It was as if the natural world had been brought indoors.
Just inside the door was a man-made lazy river with guests riding on small boats. In the distance to the left, Truitt could just make out the figures of people scaling an artificial alpine peak. He watched as snow cascaded down, only to be swallowed up by an opening at the base. Truitt shook his head in amazement.
Truitt continued on until he came to an information desk.
“Which way to the nearest bar?” he asked the clerk.
The clerk pointed in the distance. “Just past Stonehenge on the right, sir.”
Truitt walked into a domed area and past an exactsized replica of Stonehenge. An artificial sun was mimicking the summer solstice and the shadows formed an arm that pointed to the center. Finding the door to the bar—a thick-planked affair peering out from under a thatched roof—Truitt opened it and entered the dimly lit room.
The bar was a replica of an old English roadhouse. Walking over to a stool constructed from wood, leather, and boar’s horns, Truitt sat down and stared at the bar itself. It was a massive slab of wood that must have weighed as much as a dump truck.
The bar was empty save Truitt, and the bartender approached from the side.
“Grog or mead, my lord,” she asked.
Truitt considered this for a moment. “Mead, I guess,” he said finally.
“Good choice,” the bartender said, “it’s a little early for grog.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Truitt said as the bartender reached for a glass and began to fill it from a wooden cask behind the bar.
The bartender was dressed in the costume of a serving wench. Her bosom spilled out of the top of the uniform. Setting the glass in front of Truitt, she made a half bow then backed away down the bar. Truitt sipped the drink and sat in the dark room thinking about the man who had created this man-made wonderland.
And how he would break into the man’s office to search.
“How much do I owe you?” Truitt asked the bartender.
“I can put it on your room card,” the bartender offered.
“I’ll just pay cash.”
“Morning special,” the bartender said, “one dollar.”