Gauntlet (51 page)

Jennifer shuddered. It was 4AM, Pakistan time.

B
ACK IN HIS CELL at Inzar Ghar, Zak had listened in shock to the sound of footsteps running up the stairs. He couldn’t believe they’d escaped already, and with so little trouble. When one of them turned and headed down again, he decided to take his chances. There was a world of possibility, if it worked. And what was there to lose, really?

“Richard!” he called, trying to make his voice carry as far as he could, while still keeping the pitch low.

He stood stock still, praying. There was dead silence on the stairs, and then the sound of a fierce argument. He knew that Richard had heard him. But of course the woman wouldn’t have, and wouldn’t believe Richard when he told her what he’d heard. He could hear the two of them shouting at each other in whispers, each trying to convince the other. Then the woman won. Zak smiled wryly. He wasn’t surprised — Richard’s heart was usually in the right place, but his will had never been as strong as it should have been. The two of them raced up out of the stairway, and Zak listened nervously to the sound of yelling, gunshots, and a dead motor trying to turn over. Finally, whatever vehicle they had found started up, and they sped away from the fortress, unknowingly leaving Zak behind to fend for himself.

Zak sighed deeply, and started digging again. He was glad that Richard had escaped so easily, but knew that he couldn’t brood on the close call for long; he had far more important things to think about. Things like his own escape. The grate in his cell had indeed connected to a tunnel, which he was now widening. He put renewed force into his digging, determined to make it out before the sun rose. Dig, dig, rest. Dig, dig, rest...

A
T THAT MOMENT, in the American southwest, Kumar was getting ready to demonstrate his latest toy for Yousseff. Beaming, he pulled down a lever on the inside of the trailer. Two elongated steel beams slid out of the rear of the trailer, and then further beams, on metal wheels, and then a whole array of smaller metal rails and parts. The wizards at KDEC had created a beautifully designed and engineered ramp. It had been constructed in Karachi and delivered to Long Beach by one of the ships from the Karachi Star Line. When the device had stopped feeding itself out of the truck, Kumar pulled back on a second large lever.

There was a whirr of electrical motors, and the PWS-14, which Kumar had nicknamed the “Pequod” after Ahab’s ill-fated vessel in
Moby Dick
, rolled itself silently out of the rear of the large trailer. It came to rest at the top of another ramp and roller system built into the facility floor. From the top of this ramp it would, with a small push, roll into the passage of water that divided the center and front portions of the facility.

“She’s gorgeous, Kumar,” said Yousseff, surveying the strange but exquisite craft. The modified PWS-14 was one of a kind — this was the working prototype of Pacific Western Submersible’s newest model. It had been two years in the making, and Kumar was looking at mass producing it. It was larger, longer, and more powerful than all the preceding models, and came equipped with two multi-jointed arms, complete with complex pincer claws that were capable of holding and manipulating a wide variety of power tools. Kumar had been impressed with Gallo’s work in exploring the Titanic, and was determined to outdo him. It was something that he was fully capable of accomplishing. His company had acquired an international reputation. None of Kumar’s competitors could match his research and development budget, or the incredible things that came out of his workshop. But then, his competitors were not saddled with the burden of laundering drug money.

“I will hate to lose her,” Kumar replied. “But all the information we need to reproduce her is in our computers. She’s served well as a prototype, and we’re going to manufacture these on a larger scale in a couple of months.” He looked at Yousseff’s frown and added, “In Karachi, of course.”

Yousseff nodded, surveying Kumar’s latest creation with fascination. He thought back to the old smuggling days on the Indus, and what the first underwater creation had looked like. A small, leaky, one-person submarine, no more than ten feet in length, without any navigation equipment, with a maximum depth of five feet. They’d come a long way.

“What I have in the smaller trailer is even more interesting,” said Kumar, walking to the van. “Watch this. Ethan Byron’s engineers started to call this thing the Ark. No one has ever seen anything like it before. This is what those Egyptian engineers and mathematicians designed, based on the technology that they stole from Livermore National Laboratories. On a much larger scale.”

“They guaranteed it would work,” said Yousseff. “But then, lots of people guarantee lots of things. If it doesn’t, we’ll just lick our wounds and carry on.”

“Hopefully not to rot in some American jail,” said Kumar.

“That will never happen, Kumar. They’ll never put this together. And the cover-up plan is almost complete already.”

“I don’t have a clue if this is going to work,” replied Kumar. “It’s one bizarre looking contraption, though. For all I know, it could be some twisted cosmic joke. I told the crew that it’s a device for communicating with whales, so they wouldn’t ask questions.”

Yousseff laughed. Only in America would engineers create a multimillion-dollar device so that the government could communicate with whales. Only in America. The two of them waited in suspense for the Ark to unload itself from the back of the smaller truck. Kumar activated a lever and a similar, smaller ramp fed itself out of the van and onto the facility floor. He pulled on a second lever, and with a whir of electrical motors, the Ark slowly rolled out of the van and came to rest beside the Pequod.

“It’s amazing,” said Yousseff. “Absolutely stunning.” And indeed it was, until its purpose was considered. It was the shape of a gigantic saddle, 20 feet long, five feet wide, six feet high at each end, and about two feet in height in the middle. More remarkable were its many colors, all polished and machined to an obviously high degree of precision. The ridge of gold running down the center of the saddle was especially prominent, becoming wider and deeper toward the middle of the structure.

Yousseff walked slowly around the Ark, touching its glassy smooth surface at various places, noting his reflection in some of the many metallic alloys that constituted its roof and walls. “She is beautiful, Kumar. Absolutely stunningly beautiful.”

“Well, sure, Youss,” replied Kumar. “A lovely $3 million conversation piece. A housing for a whale communication apparatus.” They both laughed.

“Help me position the gantry over her, Yousseff,” said Kumar. He also motioned to Ted, Sam, Ray, and Hank to help out. “We need to place the lid on its side, so we can fill up the body with the Semtex,” he explained.

Yousseff and the other men moved over to help position the gantry crane. “Assuming the Semtex arrives here soon,” Kumar added darkly.

“It’s Ba’al and Izzy. They will make it, guaranteed. Those two will not let us down, Kumar. There should be no worry there.”

“Let me stretch out some blankets on the floor here,” said Kumar, as the highly machined lid lifted away from the body of the Ark. “If this gets dented or deformed in any way, the device loses its effectiveness.”

It took a few more minutes, but ultimately the lid came to rest beside the base, attached to it by three large, thin titanium hinges. Yousseff ordered the four truckers to return to their vehicles to wait. Kumar and Yousseff headed into the small office of the facility, where Kumar made some coffee in the small Pyrex pot. Massoud and Javeed were already sitting in a small machine shop at the other end of the building, reading the Koran and deeply immersed in prayer. The central working area was left to the gleaming Ark and the flat, space age Pequod sitting next to it. Nothing else could be done until the Semtex arrived. Minutes turned to hours, and the anxious seconds ticked by.

T
HE LAST LEG of the journey, from Cedar City south, along State Highways 14 and 289, was the most difficult. Both Izzy and Ba’al were fatigued to the point of seeing double. They switched from driver to passenger every half hour. Their bodies were swimming with caffeine and sugar, and they were heavy with the junk food they had consumed. The satellite radio was on constantly, tuned to CNN. As they reached the gravel and then the rough dirt roads, the first reports were coming out about the possibility of an imminent terrorist attack on the American homeland. Roadblocks had been set up along the freeways, and specifically on I-15.

Ba’al looked at Izzy and smiled. “Just under the wire,” he said.

Izzy nodded. “Yousseff was right, again.”

It was past midnight local time, on September 3, when they finally reached the PWS testing facility. The two large trucks that Ray, Sam, and their passengers had brought from Los Angeles were pulled over to the side of the parking area. Izzy backed his five-ton truck up to the building, parking it beside the Ford F-350 that had been rented at the Page airport. Ba’al opened the door and almost tripped in his rush to greet Yousseff. They did see each other from time to time, but it was rare for Yousseff, Ba’al, Izzy, and Kumar to find themselves in the same place at the same time. There was the usual exchange of hugs and pleasantries, but all four knew that time was short.

“It was on the radio, Yousseff,” said Ba’al. “The American government knows all about the missing Semtex. They may already suspect that we took it through Devil’s Anvil. There are roadblocks along I-15.”

“Then we must get on with it. I told you they would be right on our tails. America’s billion-dollar security apparatus is, as we speak, trying to sniff us out. We need to move quickly. This stuff,” he said, motioning to the van, “has traveled halfway across the world. Let’s not make a mess of it in the last few miles. Let’s get to work.” He opened the sliding rear door.

“This should make that old bastard in the Sefid Koh smile,” said Izzy. “From the Libyan desert to the heart of America.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Yousseff. “You know the Emir. The goat is incapable of laughter. It’s rumored that he smiled after the last terrorist attack, but then got pissed off because he hadn’t thought of it himself. He’s wanted to outdo bin Laden ever since. Like it’s a contest of some kind.”

“Black and twisted prick, I would say,” said Izzy. “But this has definitely been an interesting scheme.”

“Indeed,” Yousseff answered. “But let’s worry about our side of the deal. There is no telling what’s going on in the Sefid Koh, and it is not our concern.”

D
EEP IN THE SEFID KOH, Jennifer pulled over and cut the engine.

“Now what the hell are you doing?” slurred Richard.

“I’m listening for the sounds of their engines,” said Jennifer. They both sat for a moment, listening intently.

“They’re gaining,” said Richard.

“Of course they’re gaining. They know the road. I don’t,” snapped Jennifer. “But at least they don’t have any lights.”

“And whose idea was that? Jen, we have more to think about than just the guys behind us. These guys have immense power. I’m certain that they’re in league with the police. They’ll have specialized communications. There will be some sort of roadblock at the other end of this road. Likely a Jeep or two, at the very least, coming the other way. We’re probably boxed in, here.”

“So what do you want me to do about it, Richard? If we’re boxed in, we’re toast. Those two guys from the cell were mean sons of bitches, and then we whacked them on the head and booted them in the balls. They’re going to be in a truly black mood now. Help me out.”

Richard clutched at the pockets of his jacket, looking for the pill bottle, and found it with a prayer of thanks. He flipped the lid, shook out two pills, and knocked them back. He had mastered the art of taking pills without liquids many years ago.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” swore Jennifer. “If I ever get out of this I’m going to talk to Big Jack personally about getting you into rehab. You’re too valuable to be wasted on drugs.”

Richard ignored the remark. His brain had switched back to rational thought, and he was considering their current situation. “Here’s what we do, and we’ve got maybe five minutes to sort it out. Keep the lights on and go slower,” he said.

“Slower?”

“Yes. Slower. There must be some kind of path, goat trail, farm trail, whatever. It may only be a driveway, or it may take us to the next valley over. Whatever it is, it’ll buy us half an hour, maybe more. We’ve got a Jeep, so we can do some cross-country traveling. We’ve got weapons, and I’ve got American money, which may also buy us some time. All we need is a telephone. Or to get into cell range, I guess, since I grabbed that guy’s phone. We need to communicate, one way or another, the contents of the last message to the Embassy. They’ll handle the rest. And maybe they can come pick us up afterward.”

Jennifer looked over at Richard. For a messed up addict, he did sometimes show flashes of brilliance. Maybe that was the Richard of old, before his eyes went, before he tanked a plane, before divorce one and divorce two, and before the drugs. There was certainly a lot of sadness in his eyes.

“Will do, Richard. Keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes, but we should turn right, not left. Downhill is to the right. Our chances are better if we turn right,” said Richard, slurring his words again.

A nerve-racking five minutes followed. Once they thought they saw a trail to the right and backed up, but it had been a trick of shadows. They saw a couple of trails to the left, but ignored those. Their anxiety sharpened, and they stopped talking completely. This had become a life and death exercise, and death would likely be short on palliative care.

“There,” barked Richard. “Right there. Sharp right, Jen. Now.”

Jennifer almost flipped the Jeep turning, but she managed to right it, and they found themselves on a narrow, heavily rutted trail. They pulled ahead 20 feet.

“Cut the lights, Jen. We go forward in the dark. Give your eyes a minute to adjust. Then keep going ahead, slowly.”

They edged along in the darkness. Five minutes later, they heard the roar of the other Jeeps as they raced downhill, chasing a gopher that had just bolted into a different hole.

Jennifer continued to creep along the mountain trail, drawing farther and farther away from the main road. Occasionally the trail widened enough that two vehicles would be able to pass each other, only to narrow again to a trail so closed off that cedar and pine trees slapped against the windshield and sides of the Jeep as they drove. The trail would climb, then descend, and appeared to move through the valley opposite a fast-flowing mountain creek, on the other side of what appeared to be the main road.

An hour went by, then two. The Jeep continued on its slow journey, heading toward what they hoped to be the valley floor. Tiny twinkling lights could be seen in the distance. Little hamlets in the Frontier Province, perhaps friendly, perhaps not. All they needed was a telephone, or a cell signal. All they needed was 30 seconds of conversation, and the looming catastrophe could be averted.

Richard was not doing well. His head was throbbing, and the pain had moved on to a full-blown migraine. He stretched every once in a while, to ease the spasms in his back. He’d long since realized that the medication wasn’t helping, but continued to take more pills from time to time. The pain had almost completely taken over, and he was starting to have more complex conversations with Zak’s tibia. Jennifer had to stop the Jeep twice, as Richard retched and vomited violently. Then more moaning. More Vicodin. She was astounded at the sheer volume of medication the man was consuming.

“Richard, you’ve got a problem there. You need to detox and get in a program somewhere,” she said at one point.