Sacred Stone (Oregon Files 2)

Adams nodded; he’d been watching the Cessna appear and disappear for the last ten minutes. “I doubt he sees us,” Adams said. “We’re below him, and far enough back that we’re out of his rear field of view.”

“He can still pick us up on his avoidance radar,” Cabrillo noted.

“I don’t think he has one,” Adams said. “That’s an old-model Cessna.”

“Can you speed up?”

“We’re running dead out, boss,” Adams said, pointing to the air speed indicator, “and so is he, I’d judge. I can’t climb to dive down and gain speed that way. I’d lose too much forward air speed in the climb—he’d pull ahead out of sight.”

Cabrillo considered this for a moment. “Then all we can do is follow along,” he said, “and call for help.”

“That’s it,” Adams said.

JAMES BENNETT FLEW along thinking he was alone in the sky. He was not familiar with the Robinson R-44’s cruising speed but he knew most of the smaller helicopters topped out at around a hundred miles an hour. By his estimates, by the time he reached Scotland, the helicopter—if it was still following—would be at least a half hour behind him. Bennett reached for his satellite telephone and placed a call.

“I picked up the package,” he said, “but I think I have a tail.”

“Are you sure?” the voice asked.

“Not positive,” Bennett answered, “but if I do, I think I can outrun him. The problem is, once I land, I’ll only have a half hour or so to make the transfer. Is that a problem?”

The man on the other end of the line thought for a moment before answering. “I’ll work something out,” he said, “and call you back.”

“I’ll be here,” Bennett said, disconnecting.

Adjusting the trim to keep the Cessna flying straight, Bennett scanned the instruments, paying particular attention to the fuel gauge. It was going to be close. Holding the yoke as the Cessna was lifted up by a thermal current, he waited until the plane settled back down to his cruising altitude. Then he reached over and poured himself a cup of coffee from a battered Stanley thermos he’d owned for close to twenty years.

“I’LL CALL OVERHOLT,” Hanley said, “and have him get the British to scramble some fighter jets and force the plane down. That should wrap this up.”

“Just make sure he has the British wait until the Cessna is over land,” Cabrillo said. “I don’t want to lose the meteorite now.”

“I’ll make sure he understands that,” Hanley said.

“How far are you from port in the Faeroes?”

“About twenty minutes.”

“Did the Danes impound the yacht yet?” Cabrillo asked.

“According to the last message from Washington, they don’t have the manpower,” Hanley said. “But they have a policeman on the hill near the airport watching the ship—that’s the best they can do for right now.”

Cabrillo thought for a second. “Has anyone recovered the nuclear bomb?”

“Not according to my last intelligence.”

“It might be on the yacht,” Cabrillo noted.

“The source Overholt had claims it was loaded on an old cargo ship.”

“Whoever these guys are,” Cabrillo said, “they seem to like to switch at sea. There’s a good chance that they met up with the cargo ship somewhere and then took the weapon on board.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Let’s recommend to Overholt that the yacht be allowed to leave port,” Cabrillo said. “Keep the Oregon away from it—let’s let the British or American navy deal with the problem. They can board the yacht at sea—there’s a lot less risk that way.”

“I’ll call Overholt now,” Hanley said, “and report our recommendations.”

The telephone went dead, and Cabrillo sat back in his seat. He had no way of knowing that the meteorite and the nuclear bomb were possessed by two separate factions.