Sandstorm (26 page)

The muscles of Omaha’s jaw ached from clenching too long.

I care for her.

As he rowed, Omaha wasn’t sure what made him more angry.

If the man was lying…or telling the truth.

3:47 A.M.

A
N HOUR
later, Painter waded through the waist-high water, dragging the towline over his shoulder. The beach stretched silvery before him, framed in tumbled rocky cliffs. The rest of the coastline was dark, except for a few meager lights to the far north. A small village. The immediate vicinity seemed deserted. Still, he kept a wary eye. He had given Coral the night-vision goggles to keep a watch from the launch.

As he continued forward, his shoes dug deep into the rocky sand. His thighs burned from the effort. His shoulders ached from his shift at the oars. Waves helped push him toward the waiting shore.

Only a little further…

At least the rain had stopped.

He leaned his shoulder into the line and hauled the trailing boat toward solid ground. Behind him, Danny worked the oars while Painter guided the boat around the rocks. At last, the beach opened up ahead, a clear shot.

“Pull hard!” Painter called back to Danny.

Slack grew in the line as Danny obeyed. The launch leaped forward with a sweep of oars. Painter fought the water, climbing out of the waves, knee-deep. He slogged forward and to the side.

The launch surfed a final wave and passed to Painter’s right. He ducked to avoid being hit. “Sorry!” Danny called to him, dragging in the oars.

The boat’s prow ground into the sand with a screech of aluminum. The wave receded, leaving the boat beached.

Painter crawled and kicked out of the water, gaining his feet.

The eight men and women clambered from the launch. Coral helped Kara, while Danny, Omaha, and Clay half fell out of the boat. Only the three Desert Phantoms—Captain al-Haffi and his two men—remained on their feet, scanning the beach.

Painter lumbered farther out of the lapping water, sodden, limbs heavy. He crossed beyond the tide line in the sand. Winded, he turned to see how the others were faring with the launch. They’d have to hide the boat, drag it somewhere, or sink it.

A shadow loomed behind him. He failed to see the raised fist. He was struck in the face. Too weak, he simply fell backward onto his rear.

“Omaha!” Kara called out.

Painter now recognized his attacker. Omaha stood over him.

“What are you—” Before Painter could finish, the man was on him, shoving him back into the sand, one hand on his throat, the other going for another punch.

“You goddamn son of a bitch!”

Before the fist could land, hands grabbed Omaha’s shoulder, shirt. He was tugged backward. He fought, twisting, but Coral had a fistful of the man’s collar. She was strong. Cotton ripped along the neckline.

Painter took the opportunity to scramble backward. His left eye wept from the first punch.

“Let me go!” Omaha bellowed.

Coral threw him bodily into the sand.

Kara circled to his other side. “Omaha! What the hell are you doing?”

He sat up, red-faced. “That bastard knows more than he’s been telling us.” He jerked a thumb at Coral. “Him and his Amazon sidekick.”

Even his brother tried to calm him. “Omaha, this isn’t the time to be—”

Omaha shoved up to his knees, panting, spittle flying. “Goddamn right it’s time! We followed the bastard this far. I want answers before we move one step further.” He heaved to his feet, swaying a bit.

Painter gained his feet with an arm from Coral.

The others all faced them, a line drawn in the sand between them.

Kara stood in the center, glancing at each group. She held up a hand, seeming to settle on a side. She faced Painter. “You said you had a plan. Let’s start there.”

Painter took a deep breath and nodded. “Salalah. That’s where they’ll be taking Safia. Where we have to go next.”

Omaha called out, “How do you know that? Why are you so sure? They could be taking her anywhere…for ransom, to sell the artifact. Who the hell knows where?”

“I know,” Painter said coolly. He let silence stretch before speaking again. “This was no random raiding party that attacked us. They were focused, purposeful in their assault. They whisked in and grabbed Safia
and
the iron heart. They knew what they were going after and who knew the most about it.”

“Why?” asked Kara, clipping some outburst from Omaha with a thrust of an arm. “What do they want?”

Painter stepped forward. “What we wanted. Some clue to the true location of the lost city of Ubar.”

Omaha swore under his breath. The others simply stared.

Kara shook her head. “You haven’t answered my question.” Her tone darkened. “
What do they want?
What do they seek to gain by finding Ubar?”

Painter licked his lips.

“This is bullshit!” Omaha growled. He shoved past Kara, fast.

Painter stood his ground, holding Coral back with a hand signal. He would not be punched again.

Omaha lifted his arm. Metal glinted in the meager light. A pistol pointed at Painter’s head. “You’ve been yanking our chains long enough. Answer the woman’s question. What the hell’s going on?”

“Omaha,” Kara warned, but there was not much energy in her voice.

Coral sidled to the side, positioning to go for Omaha’s flank. Painter again signaled her to hold.

Omaha punched the gun at him harder. “Answer me! What goddamn game is going on here? Who do you really work for?”

Painter had no choice but to come clean. He needed the group’s cooperation. If there was to be any hope of stopping Cassandra, of rescuing Safia, he would need their help. He couldn’t do it with Coral alone.

“I work for the U.S. Department of Defense,” he finally admitted. “Specifically DARPA. The research-and-development arm of the DOD.”

Omaha shook his head. “Fucking great. The military? What does any of this have to do with them? We’re an archaeological expedition.”

Kara answered before Painter could. “The explosion at the museum.”

Omaha glanced at her, then back at Painter.

He nodded. “She’s right. It was no ordinary blast. Residual radiation pointed to an extraordinary possibility.” All eyes were on him, except Coral, who still had her full attention on Omaha and the gun. “There is a high probability that the exploded meteorite contained some form of antimatter.”

Omaha let out an explosive sound of derision, as if he had been holding it all along. “
Antimatter
…what a load of bullshit! Who do you take us for?”

Coral spoke at his side, matter-of-fact, professional. “Dr. Dunn, he is telling you the truth. We tested the blast zone ourselves, detecting Z-bozons and gluons, decay particles from an antimatter/matter interaction.”

Omaha frowned, less sure.

“I know it sounds preposterous,” Painter said. “But if you’ll lower your gun, I’ll explain.”

Omaha steadied the pistol instead. “So far this is all that’s kept you talking.”

Painter sighed.
It was worth the try.
“Have it your way, then.”

With the gun pointed at his face, he gave a brief overview: of the Tunguska explosion in Russia in 1908, of the unique gamma radiation found
both there and at the British Museum, of the plasma characteristics of the explosion, and how evidence hinted that somewhere out in the deserts of Oman lay a possible source of antimatter, preserved in some unknown fashion to make it stable and unreactive while in the presence of matter.

“Though now it may be destabilizing,” Painter finished. “That may be why the meteor exploded at the museum. And it may happen here, too. Time is critical. Now may be the only time we can discover and preserve this source of unlimited power.”

Kara frowned. “And what does the United States government plan on doing with such a limitless source of power?”

Painter read the suspicion in her eyes. “Safeguard it for now. That’s the immediate and primary goal. To protect it from those who would abuse it. If this power should fall into the wrong hands…”

Silence lingered as his words died away. They all knew borders no longer divided the world so much as ideologies. Though it was undeclared, there was a new world war being waged, where fundamental decency and respect for human rights were under assault by forces of intolerance, despotism, and blind fervor. And while its battles were sometimes waged in plain sight—in New York City, in Iraq—its greater struggle was carried on invisibly, fought in secret, its heroes unknown, its villains hidden.

Willing or not, the group assembled here on the beach had been drafted into this war.

Kara finally spoke. “And this other group. Safia’s kidnappers. They’re the same ones who broke into the British Museum.”

Painter nodded. “I believe so.”

“Who are they?” Omaha still held the pistol at him.

“I don’t know…not for sure.”

“Bullshit!”

Painter held up a hand. “All I know for certain is who leads the team. A partner I once worked with, a mole planted in DARPA.” He was too exhausted to hide his anger. “Her name is Cassandra Sanchez. I never discovered who she worked for. A foreign power. Terrorists. A black-market group. All I know is that they are well funded, organized, and cold-blooded in their methods.”

Omaha scoffed, “And you and your partner are the warm, fuzzy types.”

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“No, you’re fucking
worse
!” he spat. “You let others do your dirty
work. You knew we were walking into a possible shitstorm but kept your mouths closed. If we had known before now, we might’ve been better prepared. We might have stopped Safia’s abduction.”

Painter had no comeback. The man was right. He’d been caught off guard, jeopardizing the mission and their lives.

Distracted by his own guilt, he failed to respond in time. Omaha lunged and pressed the pistol’s barrel against his forehead, knocking him back a step. “You bastard…this is all your fault!”

He heard the pain and anguish in Omaha’s voice. The man was beyond reason. Anger built in Painter’s chest. He was cold, sore, and tired of having a gun waved in his face. He didn’t know if he’d have to take Omaha out.

Coral waited, tense.

Support came from an unlikely source.

A thunder of hooves suddenly broke across the beach. All eyes turned, even Omaha. He stepped back and finally lowered the gun.

“Goddamn…” he muttered.

Across the sand, an amazing sight galloped. A white stallion, mane flying, hooves casting up gouts of sand. It was the horse from the
Shabab Oman.

The stallion raced toward them, perhaps drawn by their raised voices. It must have swum to shore after the explosion. It slammed to a stop a few yards from them, huffing white into the cool night air, heated. It tossed its head.

“I can’t believe it got away,” Omaha said.

“Horses are excellent swimmers,” Kara scolded, but she couldn’t keep the awe from her voice.

One of the Desert Phantoms slowly approached the horse, palm out, whispering in Arabic. It shivered but allowed the approach. Exhausted, frightened, needing reassurance.

The sudden arrival of the horse cut the tension. Omaha stared down at his gun as if unsure how it had gotten into his fist.

Kara stepped forward and faced Painter. “I think it’s time we stopped arguing. Casting blame. We all had our reasons for coming out here. Hidden agendas.” She glanced back to Omaha, who would not meet her eye. Painter could guess the man’s agenda. It was plain from the way he’d been looking at Safia, his furious anger a moment ago. He was still in love.

“From here,” Kara continued, “we must figure out what we’re going
to do to save Safia. That’s the priority.” She turned to Painter. “What do we do?”

Painter nodded. His left eye ached with the motion. “The others think we’re dead. That gives us an advantage we’d best keep. We also know where they’re heading. We have to reach Salalah as quickly as possible. That means crossing almost three hundred miles.”

Kara stared toward the lights of the distant village. “If I could reach a phone, I’m sure I could get the sultan to—”

“No,” he cut her off. “No one must know we’re alive. Not even the Omani government. Any word, anywhere, that we’re still alive jeopardizes our thin advantage. Cassandra’s group managed to abduct Safia through their advantage of surprise. We can win her back the same way.”

“But with the sultan’s help, Salalah could be locked down and searched.”

“Cassandra’s group has already proven too damn resourceful. They’ve brought in significant manpower and weapons. That couldn’t have happened without resources in the government.”

“And if we come out of hiding, word would reach the kidnappers,” Omaha mumbled. He had holstered the pistol in his waistband and rubbed his knuckles. His angry outburst seemed to have steadied the man. “The kidnappers would be gone before any action could be taken. We’d lose Safia.”

“Exactly.”

“Then what do we do?” Kara asked.

“We find transportation.”

Captain al-Haffi stepped forward. Painter was unsure how the man would feel about deceiving his own government, keeping them in the dark, but then again, when out in the field, the Desert Phantoms acted with full independence. He nodded to Painter. “I’ll send one of my men over to the village. They won’t arouse suspicion.”

The captain must have read something in Painter’s face, some question about why he was so readily helping the team. “They killed one of my men. Kalil. He was my wife’s cousin.”

Painter nodded with sympathy. “May Allah carry him home.” He knew there was no stronger loyalty than that to the members of one’s own tribe and family.

With a half bow of thanks, Captain al-Haffi waved to the taller of his two men, a true giant of a man, named Barak. They spoke rapidly in Arabic. Barak nodded and began to step away.

Kara stopped him. “How are you going to get a truck with no money?”

Barak answered her in English, “Allah helps those who help themselves.”

“You’re going to steal one?”

“Borrow. It is tradition among our desert tribes. A man may borrow what he needs. Stealing is a crime.”