Blip, blip, beep. Blip, beep beep, blip.
Through the chaos of tones, she thought she recognized a pattern. Making sure her computer was recording the telemetry from Juan’s chip, she opened an Internet connection and checked her hunch. It took her nearly a minute to decipher the first series of sounds even as more came in.
Wake . . . up . . .
Blip, blip, blip, blip. Blip, blip, beep. Beep, blip, blip, beep.
Hux . . .
Juan was interrupting the signal from the chip somehow and was sending a message in old-fashioned Morse code.
“You crafty SOB,” Julia muttered in admiration.
And then the alarm shrieked a continuous cry that went on and on.
Julia knocked over a cup of pens reaching for the phone.
AFTER TREKKING THE FIRST four miles from the terrorist camp, Cabrillo had found a sheltered spot out of the sun’s brutal gaze to hole up. He and his new charge, Alana Shepard, would need to wait until nightfall in order to tackle the open desert. He told her to sleep while he backtracked a mile to make sure their spoor had been obliterated by the wind. He knew Muslims didn’t keep dogs, even for tracking purposes, so he felt confident that no one would be on their trail, at least for a while.
When they started out again shortly after sunset, he wanted to put much distance between themselves and the camp, sensing that once they stopped he wouldn’t be able to walk much farther afterward. If he and Alana were still alone in the desert come dawn, the vultures would start circling. With food so scarce in the desert, the vultures would loiter for days waiting for their prey to die. It would be the same as raising a sign that said ESCAPEES HERE. If the terrorists sent out a patrol, especially the chopper, they would be spotted quickly.
One more thing he had to consider was Alana’s endurance. She appeared in better condition than the other prisoners he had seen, but she still suffered from deprivation. He had swiped a couple of canteens during his earlier meanderings and allowed her to drink as much as she could, yet she remained sorely dehydrated. And there was nothing he could do for the rumbling in her belly that she felt compelled to keep apologizing for.
It was three in the morning when he could tell she was spent completely. She might make it another mile, but there was no real need. It was time now to rely on his people and not her stamina.
“So tell me more about the dig you were heading up,” he invited to distract her, settling himself on the ground with his back against a rock. He had led her up a small outcrop of rock with a natural bowl at its summit that provided cover as well as a strong vantage point.
Because he had pushed the march so hard, they hadn’t really spoken much beyond introductions.
“It’s frustrating.” She sipped from the canteen. Despite what must be a raging thirst, she had good survival instincts and drank sparingly. “The original source material strongly indicates the Suleiman Al-Jama’s Saqr is still buried in a cave someplace, but I’ll be darned if we could find any sign. For one thing, the geology is all wrong for caves or caverns.”
“And for all you know, this guy Lafayette’s bearings were off and you’re searching the wrong riverbed,” he said, finishing her thought. He rolled up his pant leg.
Alana stared at the molded titanium-and-plastic limb, saying nothing.
“Shaving cut,” Juan said with a lopsided grin.
To her credit, she didn’t miss a beat. “You should stick to depilatories. The third, and most likely, scenario is the Arab retainers Henry Lafayette mentioned in his journal returned to the cave after Al-Jama’s death, looted what they could, and destroyed the rest.”
“That’s actually the least likely of the three,” Juan countered. From his combat leg, he pulled a throwing knife, basically a flat piece of surgical steel that had been balanced and honed to a razor’s edge. He went on: “If they were that loyal to Al-Jama in life, the respect would have continued after death. A devout Muslim would no more desecrate a grave than he’d have ham for Easter dinner.”
“But Muslims don’t eat . . . Oh, I get it.”
“If that one generation of servants kept quiet about the entombed ship, then I’m pretty sure it’s still buried out there.”
“Not where we’ve been looking.” In the moonlight, her eyes dimmed. “Are we going to be able to rescue Greg Chaffee?”
He looked at her. “I’m not going to BS you. My team and I have another priority that trumps his rescue. I’m sorry. As soon as we’re done, I will go back. That I can promise.”
“You’re searching for Fiona Katamora’s plane, aren’t you?” She took Juan’s silence as confirmation. “We saw it going down. That’s why Greg, Mike, and I crossed the border into Libya. We were looking for it, too.”
“That explains why you were taken prisoner.”
“A patrol found us. They . . . they killed Mike Duncan. Shot him dead for trying to come to my aid.”
He could see tears glinting on her cheeks in the moonlight. Juan knew some women would want him to take them in his arms and comfort them, but there remained a defiant lift to Alana Shepard’s chin. She didn’t need his sympathy, only his help. His respect for her went up another notch.
“There’s an important peace conference coming up,” he said softly. “Her presence there would have pretty much guaranteed success.”