Authors: Boyd Morrison
She knew immediately what 'it' was by the way Sam said it. Noah's Ark. The quest her father had dedicated his whole life to. She shook her head in disbelief.
"You mean, the actual boat that..." Dilara paused. The remaining color had drained from Sam's face. "Sam, are you sure you're all right? You look a little pale."
Sam clutched his chest, and his face twisted into a mask of agony. He doubled over in his seat and fell to the floor.
"My God! Sam!" Dilara threw her chair back and rushed over to him. She helped him lie flat and yelled at the teenagers with the cell phones. "Call 911!" After a paralyzed moment, one of them frantically started dialing.
"Dilara, go!" Watson croaked.
"Sam, don't talk" she said, trying to keep her composure. "You're having a heart attack."
"Not heart attack... woman who dropped purse...salad dressing was contact poison..."
Poison?
He was already delirious. "Sam..."
"No!" he yelled feebly. "You have to go...or they'll kill you, too. They murdered your father."
She stared at him in shock. Her deepest fear had always been that her father was dead, but she could never allow herself to give up hope. But now--
Sam knew.
He knew what had happened to her father!
That's why he had called her here.
She started to speak, but Sam gripped her arm.
"Listen! Tyler Locke. Gordian Engineering. Get...his help. He knows...Coleman." He swallowed hard every few words. "Your father's research...started everything. You must...find the Ark." He started rambling. "Hayden...Project...Oasis...Genesis...Dawn..."
"Sam, please." This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not when she might finally get some answers.
"I'm sorry, Dilara."
"Who are 'they', Sam?" She saw him fading and grasped his arms. "Who murdered my father?"
He mouthed words, but only air came out. He took one more breath, then went still.
She started CPR and continued the chest compressions until the paramedics arrived and pushed her back. Dilara stood to the side, crying silently. They worked to revive Sam, but it was a futile effort. They pronounced him dead at the scene. She made the obligatory statement to the airport police, including his baffling allegations, but for such an obvious heart attack, they shrugged it off as incoherent babbling. Dilara collected her backpack and walked in a daze toward the shuttle that would drop her off at her car in the long-term parking lot. Sam had been like an uncle to her, the only family she had left, and now he was gone.
As she sat in the shuttle bus, his words continued to ring in her ears. Whether they were the ravings of a demented elderly man or a warning from a close friend, she couldn't be sure. But she could think of only one way to check whether Sam's story had any truth to it.
She had to find Tyler Locke.
As his Hummer limo glided up to a bright blue jet parked at the ramp of the Bob Hope Burbank Airport's executive terminal, Rex Hayden took another swig of Bloody Mary in an attempt to take the edge off his pounding hangover. He'd been up all night partying after the Friday night premiere of his new movie. Now he was paying the price for two girls and three bottles of Cristal. Even with his shades, the morning sun made him wince. Thank God Burbank allowed celebrities like him to bypass all that crap at the security checkpoints.
Sydney would be the first stop on a grand tour of Asia to promote his latest action blockbuster. His customized Boeing Business Jet didn't have enough fuel to make it all the way to Australia in one shot, so they would have to go out of their way to refuel in Honolulu. But spending more time on the plane wasn't a hardship. He had purchased the modified 737 because it was the most luxurious thing with wings. A private bedroom, full galley, gold fixtures, enough room for his buddies to come along, and two smoking hot flight attendants that he'd selected himself. The plane was a flying hotel. It cost $50 million, but so what? He deserved it. At the age of 30, he was already one of the biggest actors in the world. His last film had made more than a billion dollars worldwide.
Hayden tossed back the last of his drink and staggered out of the limo, his entourage following. Billy and J-man were on their cell phones, and Fitz handled the luggage. Three more cars pulled up behind carrying the gaggle of people that managed his career: agent, manager, PR person, personal trainer, nutritionist, and a dozen others. Traveling with such a large group made the plane a necessity, and the best part was that his contract required the studio to reimburse him for the operating costs during the trip.
"Which bags do you want with you on the plane, Rex?" Fitz asked. "Or should they all go in the cargo hold?"
Hayden didn't need Fitz's stupid questions right now. His hangover threatened to make him sick. He couldn't do that out on the tarmac. Not in front of everyone. Man, he needed some caffeine.
"Dammit, Fitz, what do I have you around for?" he said. "Maybe my brother was right about you. I'm sick of making every little decision for you. Just get it all on board."
Fitz nodded quickly, and Hayden saw the fear in his face. Good. Maybe next time he'd grow a pair and do his job.
"Okay, you heard him," Fitz said to the driver. "And make sure they all get on. Miss one, and you couldn't get a job driving a hearse."
"Yes, sir," the driver said meekly and started handing suitcases to the airport's baggage handler.
Hayden climbed the stairs and ordered Mandy, one of the flight attendants, to pour him a coffee. Billy, J-man, and Fitz quietly sat around him while the rest of the passengers took seats in the front section. Hayden sank into one of the lambskin recliners and watched the limo pull away. He pushed the button linking him to the cockpit.
"George, let's go."
"Aloha, Mr. Hayden," the pilot said. "Looking forward to the islands?"
"I'm not getting off the plane in Honolulu," Hayden said, "so just cut that crap. Let's get the hell out of here."
"Yes, sir."
Mandy closed the door. The jet's engines spooled up, and the 737 began to taxi toward the runway.
The caffeine did the trick, and Hayden's headache began to ease. Now that he was feeling better, he let his eyes settle on Mandy. He knew how he was going to use his private bedroom over the next 15 hours.
* * *
After exiting the executive terminal parking lot, Dan Cutter stopped the Hummer limo along the side of Sherman Way and threw the driver's hat onto the passenger seat. He got out and popped the hood to make it look like he had engine problems. Then he sat in the driver's seat and flipped on the radio scanner to listen to the control tower communicating with the taxiing 737.
Getting the bag onto the plane had been even easier than he thought it was going to be. Cutter knew that Crestwood Limos was Hayden's preferred company, so he had simply called to cancel the reservation and showed up himself.
He knew those celebrity types. They didn't pay any attention to the staff, never even asked for his name. They simply assumed he was their assigned driver and that all the bags would get on, so they didn't see him put an extra one on with the others. When that little chump named Fitz had threatened him, Cutter had momentarily entertained the notion of snapping the pissant's neck, just to show him how unimportant he really was. But then he remembered his mission. The faithful leader's vision. Everything they had worked for the past three years. Getting the bag on the plane was far more important.
It had been Cutter's suggestion to test the device on Hayden's plane. A long distance flight over water was exactly what they needed. The wreckage would be three miles deep, so the plane wouldn't be recovered even if it were found. Plus, it had the added bonus of Hayden. He had been a thorn in their sides for months, bringing undue attention to the cause. And the press would go into a feeding frenzy when the plane of one of the world's biggest stars crashed, providing the perfect distraction.
Bringing the device onto a commercial airliner for the test would have been much riskier. As checked baggage, it would have been out of his control for most of the time, during which too many things could go wrong. The device could be discovered, or it could simply be left off the plane for some reason and put onto another plane. Not to mention that whoever traveled with the bag would have to go with it; for security reasons, airlines regularly removed bags when the passenger was not on board. With Hayden's plane, Cutter had seen the bag go into the cargo hold himself, and now he could watch it take off, with him standing safely to the side.
The tower gave permission for Hayden's 737 to taxi to the runway. Right on time, as Cutter knew it would be. If it hadn't, Hayden would have gone berserk. Guys like that thought the world revolved around them.
Now was the time. He opened his cell phone and navigated the address book until he found the entry he had programmed in:
New World
. He pressed the green call button. After three rings, a click of the other phone answering. Then a series of three beeps told him the device in the belly of Hayden's jet was activated. He hung up the phone and replaced it in his pocket.
The 737 came to a stop at the end of the runway. On the scanner, Cutter listened for the tower to give permission to take off.
"Flight N-348 Zulu, this is Burbank tower. Hold short of the active and await further clearance."
"Acknowledged, tower. What's the problem?"
"We've got a fuel spill on the runway. Leaking truck."
"How long? My boss isn't going to like a long wait."
"I don't know yet."
"Should I head back to the ramp?"
"Not yet. I'll keep you informed."
"Gotcha."
Cutter stared at the idling 737 in horrified disbelief, kicking himself for activating the device before permission to take off was given. A lengthy delay could be a disaster. The weather was perfect, so he hadn't anticipated a delay. Now that the device was active, there was no way to turn it off. It was already working. If the plane returned to the ramp, he would have to get the device back somehow. That would be extremely problematic, not to mention dangerous. It was already too lethal to interact with. As the plane sat there, he was helpless. So he did the only thing he could. He prayed.
Cutter leaned on the wheel, his eyes shut tight, his hands clasped together, praying with all his heart that his mission would go on. God would not forsake him. His faith would overcome.
His entire life, Cutter knew he was destined to serve a greater purpose, and he was willing to lay down his life to attain it, as all his brethren were. It was only after he left the Army, where he had gained the skills necessary to carry out God's plan, that he learned what that greater purpose was, and he had pledged himself to it without reservation. The acts he had committed to ensure a better future might be seen as barbaric to those who did not believe, but his soul was pure. The end goal was all that mattered.
Now that goal seemed as if it were in danger, but Cutter had no doubts. He was a fervent believer. His prayers would be answered.
After 40 minutes of waiting, the miracle arrived. The radio squawked to life.
"Flight N-348 Zulu, this is the tower. The fuel spill has been cleaned up. You are cleared for takeoff."
"Thank you, tower. You just saved my job."
"No problem, George. Enjoy Sydney."
Within two minutes, the jet roared down the runway. As he watched the 737 soar over the mountains and turn westward, Cutter closed the hood and got back in the Hummer. For the first time that day, he smiled.
God was with him.
Wind whipped over the landing pad of the Scotia One oil platform, blowing the windsock steadily toward the east. Located 200 miles off the coast of Newfoundland, the Grand Banks were known for some of the world's nastiest weather, but the 30 mile-per-hour winds and 15-foot seas hardly qualified as gale force. Just a typical day. Tyler Locke was curious to find out who was willing to brave the trip to meet with him.
He leaned against the railing, searching for the Sikorsky transport helicopter due to arrive any minute. No sign of it. Locke zipped up his bomber jacket against the cold and inhaled the smell of salt spray and crude oil that permeated the rig.
He'd had almost no downtime since he arrived on the platform six days ago, so the brief moment staring out at the vast Atlantic Ocean was a welcome rest. A few minutes were all he needed, and then he'd be recharged. He wasn't the type who could lie in front of the TV all day watching movies. He loved immersing himself in a project, working nonstop until the problem was solved. His need to stay busy was a product of the work ethic his father had drilled into him. It was the one thing his wife, Karen, never could change about him.
Next year
, he always told her.
Next year is the big vacation.
He was lost in thought, the old regret rearing its ugly head, and he absently reached to fiddle with his wedding ring. Only when he felt bare skin did he glance down and remember that it was no longer there. He quickly pulled his hands apart and looked back up to see one of the landing control crewmen, a short, wiry man named Al Dietz, walking toward him. At six feet two inches tall and a solid build somewhere north of 200 pounds last time he checked, Locke towered over the diminutive rig worker.
"Afternoon, Tyler," Dietz said over the wind. "Come to see the chopper land?"
"Hi, Al," Locke said. "I'm expecting someone. Do you know if Dilara Kenner is aboard?"
Dietz shook his head. "Sorry. All I know is that they have five passengers today. If you want, you can go wait inside, and I'll bring her down to you when they get here."
"That's okay. My last job was on a mine collapse in West Virginia. After a week of breathing coal dust, it could be forty below and I wouldn't mind being out here. Besides, she was kind enough to make the flight to see me, so I'm returning the favor by meeting her here."
"You should see them in a minute. You know, if she didn't make this flight, she's in for a delay. We're supposed to be socked in for at least 24 hours." Dietz waved as he left to make preparations for the landing.