Overholt watched his monitor. An image of the airfield from high above filled the screen. Then it started to reduce itself until the DC-3 was visible. The image slowly reduced down and increased in detail. There was a man walking across the runway carrying what looked like a blanket close to his chest. He walked directly toward the DC-3 and, as Overholt watched, he began to open the side door.
“Keep on the DC-3,” Overholt ordered. “If it lifts off, try to track it along.”
“Will do,” the NSA head said, disconnecting.
HANLEY WAS SITTING in the control room with Stone when the telephone rang.
“Here’s where we’re at,” Overholt said quickly. “Ms. Hunt just disclosed to my agents that Hickman used to be a pilot. Two of my men met with the South African weapons broker a few minutes ago and he disclosed that he delivered a DC-3 for Hickman to Port Said yesterday. I have a satellite image up on the screen now that shows a man the approximate size of Hickman and matching the 3-D profile you sent, who is opening the door as we speak.”
“That’s it, then,” Hanley interrupted. “He’s going for the Dome of the Rock.”
“We can’t shoot him down or we lose Abraham’s Stone,” Overholt said. “We have to let him do the drop.”
“Okay, sir,” Hanley said, “let me warn Cabrillo.”
HANLEY HUNG UP with Overholt and radioed out to the Robinson.
“Turn it around,” Cabrillo said to Adams once Hanley explained.
Adams started a wide turn to the left.
“I want everyone but Murphy and Lincoln on the ground and at the Dome of the Rock ASAP,” Cabrillo said. “Have those two start targeting the missile battery.”
“It will be done right away,” Hanley said.
“Call back Overholt and have him keep the Israelis at bay,” Cabrillo said. “I want no planes in the air or any indication to Hickman that we are on to him.”
“Roger.”
“Then have Kevin Nixon call me back ASAP. I want to go over this thing of his one more time.”
“WHERE TO, SIR?” Adams asked.
“Downtown Jerusalem,” Cabrillo said, “the Dome of the Rock.”
Adams punched commands into the GPS as the Robinson came over the coastline again.
THE OPERATIVES ON the Oregonwere racing through the halls in preparation as Nixon made his way down the passageway to the control room. He opened the door and slipped inside.
Hanley hit the microphone button and Cabrillo instantly answered.
“I have Nixon here,” Hanley said, handing him the microphone.
“Kevin?” Cabrillo said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure what you have created will work? If you have doubts I need to know now.”
“I calculated the weight and doubled the height estimate you gave me and it was still within limits,” Nixon said. “As you know, nothing is perfect—but I’d have to say yes, it’ll work.”
“How long does it take for it to be load bearing?”
“Less than a minute,” Nixon said.
“And you have enough of the material?”
“Yes, sir,” Nixon said, “I produced more than we should need.”
“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “we’re going with your idea. There is no backup plan, however, so this has to work.”
“It will, sir,” Nixon said, “but there is one problem.”
“What?”
“We could lose the stone if it strikes the Dome.”
Cabrillo was silent for a second. “I’ll take care of that,” he said.
HICKMAN HAD NOT flown a plane for more than two decades but it came back to him like it was yesterday. After he climbed into the pilot’s seat, he went through the preflight and stoked up the engines. Puffs of smoke blew from the aging power plants as they were fired, but in a few minutes they settled down to a rickety fast idle.
Staring at the control panel, he located the various switches and made sure the crude autopilot was still hooked to the controls. Then, edging the old DC-3 forward, he called the control tower for clearance.
The airfield was quiet and he was given a runway immediately.
Easing the DC-3 forward, he tried the brakes. They were spongy but worked.
Hickman didn’t mind the soft brakes—this would be the last time they would ever be used. The DC-3 was on her last journey. He rolled forward and did a slow turn onto the runway and lined up.
Checking the gauges one last time, Hickman rolled on the throttles, raced down the runway and rotated. The DC-3 lifted into the air and struggled to climb. Hickman had just over two hundred miles to travel.
At full speed, and with a slight tailwind, he’d be there in an hour.
“I HAVE THE shore boats in the water,” Stone said, “and I’ve arranged an Israeli transport helicopter to ferry the team of ten from Tel Aviv to a location near the Dome of the Rock. The chopper is too large to use our pad. That’s it there.”
Stone pointed to a monitor that showed a camera image from the bow of the Oregon.The large double-rotor helicopter was just touching down on the sand in the distance.
“I’m going to the conference room,” Hanley said.
He sprinted down the hall and opened the door of the conference room and burst inside. “Okay, people,” he said, “the boats are ready and we have a chopper onshore to fly you the rest of the way. Is everyone up-to-date on what we’re doing?”
The ten people all nodded.
“Mr. Seng is in charge,” Hanley said. “Good luck.”
The team began to filter out of the conference room, each holding a large cardboard box. Hanley stopped Nixon as he passed.
“Do you have the rope ladder?” he asked.
“It’s here in this box on the top.”
“Okay then,” Hanley said, following him down the hall to the rear deck.
Hanley watched from the rear deck until the two boats were loaded and had set off the short distance toward shore. Then he walked back inside to check on Murphy and Lincoln.
“WHERE AM I going to drop you off?” Adams asked.
“We’re going right to the Dome of the Rock,” Cabrillo said. “By then the team from the Oregonwill have arrived.”
“Then what?”
“Let me explain,” Cabrillo said.
A couple of minutes later, when Cabrillo had finished, Adams whistled lightly. “With all the high-tech toys the Corporation has in its arsenal it’s come down to this.”
“It’s like a high-wire act in the circus,” Cabrillo agreed.
THE TEAM FROM the Oregonclimbed off the helicopter on a closed street near the Dome of the Rock. Israeli tanks blocked all the side streets nearby and Israeli army platoons were sweeping the streets and the mosque of people. Crowds of Palestinians, not knowing their revered shrine was in jeopardy, began to protest and the Israelis had to keep them back with water cannons.
Seng led the team to the entrance to the mosque. “Spread out and take your positions,” he told his team. “Kevin, make sure the rope is in place first.”
“Yes, sir,” Nixon said as the team trotted off into the mosque courtyard.
Seng turned to an Israeli army officer standing nearby.
“I need hoses attached to the fire hydrants on all sides and then run inside the mosque,” Seng said. “Make sure we have enough hose to reach anywhere inside we want.”
The officer began shouting orders.
HICKMAN FLEW ALONG over the Mediterranean. He was filled with a sense of a life at an end. And the life had been a failure. All his riches, the fame, and successes meant nothing in the end. The one thing he had wished to do right he had butchered. He had never been a good father to his son. Preoccupied with grandiosity and infused with a self-importance that allowed no other human being to come too close, he was never able to allow the love of a child for a parent to penetrate his shell.