Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure what you have created will work? If you have doubts I need to know now.”

“I calculated the weight and doubled the height estimate you gave me and it was still within limits,” Nixon said. “As you know, nothing is perfect—but I’d have to say yes, it’ll work.”

“How long does it take for it to be load bearing?”

“Less than a minute,” Nixon said.

“And you have enough of the material?”

“Yes, sir,” Nixon said, “I produced more than we should need.”

“Okay,” Cabrillo said, “we’re going with your idea. There is no backup plan, however, so this has to work.”

“It will, sir,” Nixon said, “but there is one problem.”

“What?”

“We could lose the stone if it strikes the Dome.”

Cabrillo was silent for a second. “I’ll take care of that,” he said.

HICKMAN HAD NOT flown a plane for more than two decades but it came back to him like it was yesterday. After he climbed into the pilot’s seat, he went through the preflight and stoked up the engines. Puffs of smoke blew from the aging power plants as they were fired, but in a few minutes they settled down to a rickety fast idle.

Staring at the control panel, he located the various switches and made sure the crude autopilot was still hooked to the controls. Then, edging the old DC-3 forward, he called the control tower for clearance.

The airfield was quiet and he was given a runwa

y immediately.

Easing the DC-3 forward, he tried the brakes. They were spongy but worked.

Hickman didn’t mind the soft brakes—this would be the last time they would ever be used. The DC-3 was on her last journey. He rolled forward and did a slow turn onto the runway and lined up.

Checking the gauges one last time, Hickman rolled on the throttles, raced down the runway and rotated. The DC-3 lifted into the air and struggled to climb. Hickman had just over two hundred miles to travel.

At full speed, and with a slight tailwind, he’d be there in an hour.

“I HAVE THE shore boats in the water,” Stone said, “and I’ve arranged an Israeli transport helicopter to ferry the team of ten from Tel Aviv to a location near the Dome of the Rock. The chopper is too large to use our pad. That’s it there.”

Stone pointed to a monitor that showed a camera image from the bow of the Oregon. The large double-rotor helicopter was just touching down on the sand in the distance.

“I’m going to the conference room,” Hanley said.

He sprinted down the hall and opened the door of the conference room and burst inside. “Okay, people,” he said, “the boats are ready and we have a chopper onshore to fly you the rest of the way. Is everyone up-to-date on what we’re doing?”

The ten people all nodded.

“Mr. Seng is in charge,” Hanley said. “Good luck.”

The team began to filter out of the conference room, each holding a large cardboard box. Hanley stopped Nixon as he passed.

“Do you have the rope ladder?” he asked.

“It’s here in this box on the top.”

“Okay then,” Hanley said, following him down the hall to the rear deck.