Too bad there was no way in hell Montgomery would let him air that footage as it showed a covert U.S. military operation inside a sovereign country, and American drones engaging international mercenaries in what appeared to be a mineral hunting expedition. Maybe there was something more politically toxic that could be aired, but Hank couldn’t imagine what it would be. This footage wouldn’t be declassified until somewhere around the year 3000.
Hank suddenly wondered how Conrad Yeats was faring. He hadn’t heard from him lately, which was a sure sign Conrad probably had already found something big. He always did. Probably was in trouble for his usual practice of replacing the trowel with dynamite too. But while Hank could complain about Conrad’s techniques over a brew in Cape Verde and wax poetic about his resonation of a Bronze Age portal, Conrad was going to beat him to the Queen of Sheba’s secrets.
As for himself, Hank’s work was done. He’d pack up his City of Sheba, edit the B-roll for the TV pilot and head back to Niantic. He could think of about 13 investigators who would marvel over the results of his resonation.
Not much, Hank Johnson, but not nothing either.
Outside, Hank was ordering the crew to break everything down when his Iridium 9555 satellite phone rang.
It was Montgomery.
“Sir,” Hank began, “I’ve got good news and bad news…”
“That’s not what I’m calling about,” crackled the voice on the other end. “A distress signal came down off the OPS scanner. Relayed from the general himself. Top priority for the African theater. You’re gonna love this.”
“Play it, I’m listening,” said Hank, looking up beyond the tree canopy overhead trying to imagine the RQ-4D Global Hawk loitering at 60,000 feet relaying their conversation across the airwaves.
The encoded transmission buzzed for a moment, then a series of morse code beeps began. Hank listened, trying to sort them out in his head. His morse was rusty as usual. Then it all became clear.
Conrad had been captured in the Sudan by forces loyal to one or both of the Zawas brothers. Intel said Conrad had been moved to Egypt before the signal quit.
“I had a drink with him the night we reefed that floating terror camp,” Hank told Montgomery, the surprise fading into resolve. “I’m done here. I’ll head out today. Can you get me the triangulated coordinates of that signal?”
Montgomery’s voice said, “I’ve got a favor or two left from a guy over at CECOM. I’ll get back to you. Might as well help General Yeats’ son, whether he wants me to or not.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“Yeah, and if you want to deliver hurt to the Zawas brothers, feel free to deal me in. I’ve got my own issues with those thugs.”
“Will do, sir.”
Hank sat there for a moment, swatting away a persistent tsetse fly buzzing near his ear.
I’m not going to miss the jungle.
But Montgomery would have more to do here. Strategic Explorations would be back, and if Hank was right about his theory that XM exposure creates conflict metals, among other things, this whole area would actually look like a quarry in two years if something wasn’t done.
Hank took a breath and began to punch in the number to Calvin back at Niantic. “This month’s bill is going to be expensive,” he said to no one in particular as the satellite call switched into a phone relay, and a very distant line began to ring.
After a moment a voice answered. “Calvin here.”
“Calvin. It’s Johnson. Look, I’m going to be away from Niantic a while longer.” Hank paused for a reaction, but only breathing came back from the other side. “I’ll try to make it short, but I’ve got another thing I have to do.”
“Yeah. I know. Yeats got snagged.” Calvin’s voice sounded perturbed. “How many masters do you serve, Johnson?”
“Too many. But rescuing Yeats might actually be helpful to us in other ways. If we proved nothing else here, we proved that the ancients knew about portals. Yeats might be able to harvest more data about this.”
“I saw your portal light up.”
“Neolithic resonators, Calvin. You understand the implications of that?”
“Yep. Lynton-Wolfe is frothing at the mouth. Lightman wanted to go down and take a look. Dalby wants them in his video.”
“Sounds like Rosier has been filling you in.”
“Yeah. And I want to hear about the drone battle. Sounds like I missed a combat geek-a-thon.”
“Yeah. It was a real party. Tell L-W that his power cube is working fine. By the way, how’s the project going? Anything interesting happening?”
Hank threw out the line to get the spotlight off himself. He wanted to see if Calvin would say anything about Bogdanovich and Jarvis.
“Sorry, you cut out there for a second,” Calvin’s voice said after a minute. “I’ve got to get into a meeting. Be careful with Montgomery. I know you two are old friends, and I saw him in the Hindu Kush anomaly event. He’s as spooky as they get.”
“Duly noted. Give my best to everybody. Good stories to come.”
Calvin didn’t say anything else. He was gone. Hank noted the dodge on how the project was going. He couldn’t imagine Calvin wouldn’t level with him. Maybe Calvin was afraid of ADA. Maybe Calvin didn’t want to taint him with knowledge.
Life was getting interesting.
The text he was waiting for now lit up his phone with a simple set of digits — coordinates to where the SOS from Conrad had likely originated from.
Thank you, Montgomery.
Hank read the numbers aloud to himself as he tried to parse the coordinates in his mind. After a moment, he sat back and frowned. “Any of you guys been to Egypt’s eastern desert? I need a nice hotel.”
CHAPTER 13
For days Conrad Yeats was treated to the same ritual of humiliation at the Zawas estate: putrid shock showers and blunt trauma in the morning, followed by tea and philosophy in the library, and a whole lot of harsh hosing down in PSYOPS treatment they were giving him. But the beatings had stopped, and the needle tracks were beginning to fade on his arms.
One morning the dousing stopped too, and Conrad knew something was up. The clothing he had been captured in was returned to him, freshly pressed. Then his guards, in dress uniform, escorted him up a different flight of whitewashed steps to a spectacular terrace with travel magazine-quality views of the Red Sea Coast.
The Zawas family villa, Conrad could now see, was nothing short of a Moorish palace boasting arches, fountains and lush courtyards in the hazy heat. There were also majestic swimming pools, but no harem of beauties in bikinis sunbathing like Conrad would expect with Zawas’s brother Abdil. Ali’s estate here, by contrast, was surrounded by a high wall. Beyond the wall palm trees swayed against the backdrop of shimmering waters.
The thought that he had been detained in a dank little corner or two of this palace while Zawas roamed like a mighty pharaoh infuriated Conrad. So did the table beneath an awning on the terrace with the white cloth, gleaming silverware and a couple of bottles chilling in a bucket.
Colonel Zawas was under the awning with a man in a crumpled white linen suit, and it wasn’t Omar. They were laughing, and when the distinguished guest turned, Conrad beheld none other than Hank Johnson, all smiles.
“There he is!” Hank called out. “Hey, buddy!”
“Buddy?” Conrad was stunned as he approached the two men. “What the hell is this?”
Hank moved to the side, and then Conrad saw the bars of gold bullion piled up like a pyramid on the table and stopped cold. “This, buddy, is your ransom. Courtesy of Uncle Sam. But Zawas here says it’s not enough and won’t let you go.”
Conrad looked at Colonel Zawas, who was now lighting up a cigar. “Haven’t you gotten what you wanted, Zawas?”