Sacred Stone

Dwyer was halfway through the chunk when the alarm sounded.

“Negative pressure,” the technician shouted.

“Add air,” Dwyer shouted.

The technician turned a dial and stared at the gauges on the wall. “We’re still sinking,” he yelled.

Inside the isolation room, vortices like that from a small tornado began forming. Several of the samples began to lift in the air and swirl about as if weightless, while the wrench Dwyer had left inside was sucked off the bench and danced in the air near the saw. It was like a giant drain had been opened and the air in the room was being sucked into nothingness.

“Full air,” Dwyer shouted.

The technician spun the air control valve to full on. Still the negative pressure grew.

The inner layer of thick glass windows began to spider web. If they went, there was only one more layer of glass between Dwyer and the technician and certain death. The Kevlar gloves that poked through the wall were completely sucked in on themselves. Dwyer quickly slammed round metal plates over the arm openings then flipped down the hatches that held them in place. The workbench in the room was bolted to the floor with one-inch-diameter bolts. One of them sprung loose and shot toward the center of the bench. The workbench started to rock as the other bolts began to work loose.

“Sir,” the technician shouted, “we’re going to lose it. I’m at full positive pressure and the vacuum is growing.”

Dwyer stared into the room. He was seconds away from a maelstrom. Then it hit him like a fist. Taking a step over to the board, he flipped on the laser. The laser lit up and the firing end began to wildly spin. Smoke filled the room as it gyrated around then touched down on the sample. Wherever the laser touched, it burned.

“The pressure is dropping,” the technician yelled a second later.

“Back off the incoming air,” Dwyer ordered.

The objects in the room began to settle as the pressure was restored. A few minutes later, things were back to normal. Dwyer shut down the laser and stared into the room.

“Sir,” the technician said a moment later, “would you mind telling me what just happened?”

“I think,” Dwyer said, “there is something in those samples that likes the taste of our atmosphere.”

“Good God,” the technician said quietly.

“Luckily for us,” Dwyer said, “we just found both the disease and the cure.”

“There is more of that out there?” the technician said warily.

“A hundred pounds.”

SOON THE PILGRIMS would begin pouring into Saudi Arabia on chartered planes, buses from Jordan and ships crossing the Red Sea from Africa. Saud Al-Sheik still had a thousand details to attend to, foremost of which was arranging delivery of the prayer rugs. He had been promised that the new owner of the mill would call him tomorrow. So he called the Saudi National Airline and arranged for transportation space on a 747 cargo plane in two days’ time.

If the prayer rugs did not get here on time, not even his family connections could spare him from the wrath he would face. He stared around the warehouse in Mecca. Pallets of food and bottled water stretched to the ceiling. A forklift truck drove in and lifted the first container of tents from the floor to load into the truck for delivery to the stadium.

Tomorrow the first of the tents would be erected.

From then on, things would move very fast.

Making a note to make sure the poles, stakes and guidelines were taken, Al-Sheik walked toward the door to make sure the driver loaded the truck properly.

JEFF PORTE GATHERED up the items he was taking from Hickman’s office and stared at the head of security. “Our warrant gives us the right to any and all items we determine might be of value.”

The large manila folder in Porte’s hand contained documents, the dog tags and a few stray hairs he’d found on the desk.

“I understand, Jeff,” the head of security said.

“Two of my men will remain here,” Porte said, “in case we need anything else.”

The security chief nodded.

Porte headed for the door and walked down the hall toward the living room, where his two detectives were waiting.

“No one in or out,” Porte said, “unless I okay it.”

Walking from the penthouse, Porte rode down in the elevator, exited the lobby and climbed into his car. As soon as he returned to the Las Vegas Police Department he copied the dog tags and the other documents, then faxed them to the CIA.

As soon as Overholt received them he forwarded them on to the Oregon.

HANLEY WAS READING the stack of papers when Halpert entered the control room.

“Mr. Hanley,” he said, “I have my report.”

Hanley nodded and handed him the papers Overholt had sent. Halpert read them, then handed them back.

“This confirms my findings,” Halpert said. “I found Hunt’s birth certificate. His mother, Michelle, did not list the father but I managed to access the old hospital records and learned that the bill had been paid by one of Hickman’s companies. There’s no doubt now that Hunt was Hickman’s son.”

“So what does that have to do with the meteorite?” Hanley asked.