Beverly shrugged.
I furrowed my brow. “You said the soil contained hydrogen-sulfide, right?”
She nodded.
“That doesn’t make sense. Hydrogen-sulfide smells like rotten eggs. But I didn’t smell anything when the chemtrails reached us.”
“That’s true,” she replied. “But hydrogen sulfide is just one of many chemicals I found in the soil. Plus, I suspect at least some of the chemicals have been engineered.”
“How so?”
“I don’t have the equipment to perform rigorous tests. But according to my mass spec, each sample contains an assortment of chemicals. Hydrogen sulfide, ammonium, carbon dioxide, and sulfur dioxide, to name just a few. But they’re not ordinary chemicals. I’m picking up carbon cluster fingerprint signals for carbon nanotubes and carbon nanodots.” She exhaled. “In other words, the chemicals are actually engineered nanomaterials.”
“You don’t need nanomaterials to kill off a bunch of people,” Graham said. “Hell, you don’t need chemicals at all.”
Another moment of silence passed over the space. I began to think about the problem, consider it from all ends. Graham was right. There had to be another reason the plane had used nanomaterials.
But what?
Chapter 22
“Get some tools.” I crouched next to a second panel. It led to the cockpit and was bolted shut from the outside. “We need to talk to the pilot.”
“There’s no pilot, at least not the way you’re thinking about it.” Beverly paused. “And no cockpit either.”
I cocked my head. “This thing is a drone?”
She nodded. “It was probably developed as a long-range surveillance aircraft.”
Drone was the popular name for an unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV. They were controlled by remote pilots and widely known for military usage. However, they were becoming increasingly common in areas like firefighting, policing, and geophysical surveying.
My fingers curled into fists. I wanted to punish whoever had killed Lila and the others. Unfortunately, that now seemed impossible. “How come you didn’t say anything before?”
“I had suspicions, but I wasn’t sure until we came in here.” She shrugged. “This model is new to me.”
Graham walked forward, toolbox in hand. “So, the pilot is somewhere else?”
Beverly nodded.
“Any chance he or she knows where to find this hunk of junk?”
“Unfortunately, yes. A very good chance.”
I exhaled. “How close is the pilot?”
“Who knows?” She shrugged. “This looks like a Tier III plane. In other words, it’s capable of high altitudes and long distances. The pilot could be almost anywhere on the globe.”
“Most likely, we’re dealing with the Israeli Air Force,” Graham said. “Still, the fuselage is unmarked. And I haven’t seen a single symbol or flag, government or otherwise.”
I looked at Beverly. “There’s got to be a way to locate the pilot.”
“Maybe.” Beverly’s gaze flitted to Graham. “Feel up to some computer work?”
He grinned. “Just show me to the vacuum tubes.”
She rolled her eyes. “This thing is basically a flying computer, complete with navigation data. Catch my drift?”
“Sure do.” Graham walked to the panel. Kneeling down, he began to loosen bolts and screws.
A few minutes later, he lowered his tools and yanked a latch. Metal groaned. A musty odor filled the cabin area.
Graham pulled a small electronic device out of his toolbox. Then he crawled through the panel. Clicks and soft dings rang out.
I glanced at Beverly. “I’m going to take a look outside.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’m sure it’s still there.”
“Only one way to find out.”
Donning my goggles, I hiked into the passage. There was little I could do to protect the reliquary. But I still felt a need to keep an eye on it.
I opened the rear panel. The wind pushed back, matching my strength. Gritting my teeth, I shoved my shoulder into the metal plate. Slowly, it shifted open.
My eyes widened as I caught sight of the storm. The unanchored dirt billowed in the air, forming a veritable black blizzard. More dirt joined it by the second, helped along by powerful winds.
Squinting, I caught a hazy glimpse of the reliquary, still covered by the plastic sheets. A thick dust cloud surrounded the sheets. Crossing winds whipped at them, causing them to flap loudly.
Questions haunted me. What did the reliquary contain? Was it truly dangerous?
And who had sent the drone? Was that person targeting God’s Judges? Or trying to keep us from salvaging the reliquary?
“I’m done in here.” Graham’s voice drifted down the passage. “Where are you guys?”
I cleared my throat. “Over—”
“Quiet,” Beverly’s voice was soft, but fierce.
Twisting around, I saw her kneeling directly behind me. Graham’s binoculars were glued to her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Her finger pointed into the distance. “We’ve got company.”
Chapter 23
“This is suicide.” Nick Mickles squinted. “I can’t see a thing with all this debris in the air.”
Grover Herman stared out the front window. Dirt flew everywhere, spinning in mesmerizing fashion. “We can’t stop,” he replied. “We have orders.”
“This is dumb. No one’s going to be traveling in this weather. We should just pull over, wait out the storm.”
“Jeremy will have our heads if we do that. You heard him. He said to secure the drone as quickly as possible.”
The SUV bumped over a small hill. Mickles gritted his teeth. “Screw him. I say we—”
“Hold on.” A large silhouette materialized out of the darkness. “I think that’s it.”
Mickles tapped the brake pedal. The vehicle rolled to a stop. For a moment, he stared at Nautilus. Then he twisted his neck to the right. “Looks like Pascal was right.”
“About what?”
“About that.”
Herman followed his gaze to a medium-duty commercial truck. It was parked in front of a sand pile, a short distance from the drone. Producing his satphone, he dialed a number. “We’re on site, sir. Nautilus is in decent shape, but it won’t fly again.” Herman paused. “And it looks like you were right about the salvage team. We’ve spotted at least one truck in the vicinity.”
After a short conversation, Herman hung up the phone.
“Well?” Mickles asked. “Are we killing them?”
“Not yet,” Herman replied. “Pascal wants them alive for questioning.”
Mickles chuckled. “Poor bastards.”
Cracking his door, Mickles climbed out of the truck. The sand was relentless, packing into his nose and scratching at his skin. Wind howled as it ripped across the arid land. Hunkering down, he soldiered forward.
The medium-duty truck came into view. It had slammed headfirst into a wall of sand, which had been thrown up by the crashed plane. Mickles studied the rectangular-shaped object on the flatbed. Then he turned toward the cab. Most likely, the salvage team had been injured in the accident. Securing them would be a simple matter.
He flashed hand signals at Herman. Herman nodded and began skulking along the truck’s passenger side.
Moving cautiously, Mickles approached the driver’s side door. Stopping next to it, he tried to peer through the window. But dirt caked its uneven surface, obscuring his view.
He glanced behind the cab, catching Herman’s eye. Lifting a hand, he counted down from three. Then he grabbed the latch and opened the door. At the same time, Herman opened the passenger side door.