The ark’s hull was wedged tightly against a steep ice cliff. We climbed through the square window and shimmied our way down between the hull and the cliff to the canyon floor below.

  We moved past the ship’s prow, which rose majestically up into the swirling snow. A short while later, I stopped and looked back. Already the ark was barely distinguishable under a thick blanket of snow, and soon it would be buried entirely. Perhaps forever.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Snow blew directly into our faces, funneled through the granite cliffs that rose steeply to either side. The weather was merciless and foul, and seemed intent to kick us when we were already down. But we persisted doggedly, often moving blindly through the storm.

  We emerged onto the Abich glacier, far above Omar’s camp. Alert for crevasses, knowing we would have been incalculably safer roped together, I led the way across the ice field. Caesar, subdued since leaving the ark, followed silently. Together, we moved cautiously down the glacier, toward camp, keeping to the safety of boulders which thrust up through the ice like the bony plates of a stegosaurus.

  ***

  I spotted a solitary guard, smoking a cigarette, an AK-47 hanging casually from a strap around his neck, trudging slowly through the snow on the north side of camp. Probably at the tail-end of a graveyard shift.

  The guard stopped and propped his weapon against a boulder and sat on a rock ledge that could have been carved naturally from the mountain. He appeared to be speaking with someone. Or talking to himself.

  I motioned for the professor to wait. But the stubborn bastard shook his head and continued to follow me. Like father, like daughter.

  We descended from above, and when we were ten feet away I slowed the pace. The howling wind masked our crunching feet. I removed the gun from my waist, and took a deep breath—

  ***

  Sheltered in a small cul-de-sac, safe from the wind, two guards were playing hooky from their rounds, hidden from view. When they saw us, their cigarettes dropped from their opened mouths, and if they saw my gun pointed at their faces, they didn’t care. Immediately, both swung their weapons in our direction. Caesar lunged into view, flying through the air, tackling one of the soldiers like a linebacker sacking a quarterback.

  “Ah, hell,” I said, and threw myself into the next soldier.

  We tumbled together in the snow. His hand gripped my throat. When I found leverage, my face no doubt purple from lack of oxygen, I knocked his hand away and leveled a clean blow to his jaw. The force of my punch shoved the back of his skull into the ice and his eyes rolled up into his head.

  I shook my hand, which hurt like hell. I turned to see how Caesar was faring—

  Caesar stood over his man like a predator guarding his prey. The guard lay on his side holding his stomach as if his intestines would spill out. Caesar smiled wolfishly. “Damn, that felt good.”

  ***

  The cul-de-sac was a nice place to have a smoke.

  So I did, snagging one from the breast pocket of the older soldier, along with a lighter. As I puffed contentedly, I stared at our two prisoners. Black-eyed and cut, both looked as if they had seen better days.

  In Arabic, I said, “When does the emir plan on launching the warhead?”

  The older one, still holding his stomach and having difficulty breathing, was heavy-set and sported a thick beard. He looked much too soft to be a soldier. Despite his pain, he grinned. “It’s your lucky day, my friend.”

  “I’m short on luck and patience,” I said. “What do you mean?”

  He stood proudly. “I’m the ballistic technician hired to arm the weapon.”

  “Why are you here and not with the others?”

  “I needed a smoke, worked all day. Also, I skipped the unveiling ceremonies.”

  “Unveiling? What do you mean?”

  “The tent has been removed in preparation for tonight’s launch.”

  “The missile has been armed?”

  The man beamed proudly. “By none other than me.”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “I’m Jabbar, from Ankara.”

  “Do you realize that you’ve just set in motion a process that could kill hundreds of thousands?”

  He shrugged. “If not me, then it would have been someone else. The pay was good.”

  I wanted to punch him in the mouth, break every tooth in his scrappy little face. “How long until it’s launched?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Thirty-two minutes.”

  “How long will it take to disarm the missile?” I asked.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve disarmed a launching sequence.” He shrugged and looked up, doing the calculations in his head as if the fate of millions were not at stake. “I would need at least two hours.”

  I pointed my gun at his head. “I will give you twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes should be fine.”

  I suddenly turned and hit the other soldier, who had only recently awakened, across his forehead with the stock of his own rifle. It was too late in the game to worry about him, as my level of human compassion was approaching zero. I tied him up with his own jacket, and pushed Jabbar before me.

  “C’mon,” I said. “We have a bomb to dismantle.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  We hid behind a snow-covered boulder just outside of camp.

  Soldiers were loading boxes and personal belongings into the chopper. The prince was packing it in. No doubt returning home to his capital in Riyadh. And Faye would join his harem, hidden forever from Western eyes, with no means of escape. Until she was too old and ugly to please young princes. And then perhaps she would take a long walk into the empty desert.

  Off to one side, Farid was supervising the whole operation. The big man had saved our lives, risking much in return. The price would almost certainly be termination and the loss of face, and to the Arab that is priceless.

  Jabbar sat quietly between us. There was a spark in his wild eyes. I found it interesting that Jabbar put up little protest. Indeed, he seemed almost eager to cooperate.

  I turned to the professor and motioned to his automatic weapon. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  Caesar grinned. “I imagine you press the trigger and point.”

  “I see you’re no slouch. But remember: aim low. These things shoot high.”

  “So what’s the plan?” asked Caesar.

  “We need a diversion,” I said.

  “But I thought blowing up the launcher was the diversion.”

  I thought about that. “Okay, we need a diversion for the diversion.”

  “What do you intend to do?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure yet. Any ideas?” I asked.

  “I thought that was your department,” said Caesar.

  “And what’s your department?” I asked.

  “I’m the extra muscle,” he said.

  “Okay, now I’m worried.”

  ***

  A Kurdish soldier stepped away from the others and headed our way. As he walked, he unbuckled his belt. It was then that I noticed something wafting up around us. Something foul. Perfume de toilette. In our haste to find shelter close to camp, we had not stopped to consider the convenience of such a large boulder in close proximity to camp.

  Latrine. He was coming to relieve himself.

  “Why didn’t you mention this was the community latrine, Jabbar,” I hissed quietly.

  “You didn’t ask, my friend.”

  I scowled.

  “Sam, he’s heading straight for us,” said the professor, his voice rising with alarm. “What do we do?”

  “Start by being quiet. And sit tight,” I said.

  The soldier removed his gloves, and continued toward us. I waited quietly, holding my breath. The crunch of boots grew louder. The soldier was humming a Kurdish folk song.

  I extended my fingers, waiting. A boot appeared from around the boulder—

  I reached up and grabbed the coat lapels of the startled soldier, yanked him to the ground, and punched him in the face, splitting my knuckle on his cheekbone. The blow dazed him, but still he managed to shout for help. The second punch knocked him out cold. His head lolled to the side, tongue hanging out like a happy dog.

  “Hell of a punch,” said Caesar. “Someday you’ll have to show me how to do that.”

  I put my finger to my lips, shushing him. But the guard’s shout of alarm had already alerted the others. From camp I heard the sudden running of feet and the shout of orders.

  I peered around the boulder. The soldiers had scattered for cover, keeping to the tents and even the chopper. All leveled their weapons at us.

  “Okay, Sam,” said Caesar, peering around his side of the boulder. “I think it’s time for a really good idea.”

  I removed a grenade from the belt of the soldier. I hefted it like a baseball. It just felt destructive. I wondered how far I could throw it.

  The first shot zinged off the top of the boulder. Followed by another, and another.

  Caesar looked at me, amusement in his eyes. The man was infallible. “I think they’re onto us, Sam.”

  “Uh huh.”

  He motioned to the grenade. “You going to use that thing or just admire it?”

  More bullets smacked the boulder, whistled overhead like mosquitoes on speed. Each report deafening, echoing off the distant granite cliffs. In a less stable part of the mountain, the reports would have attracted the attention of an avalanche. As it was, Omar had selected a good site for the launcher, with little chance of catastrophe.

  To keep them on their toes, I swung my rifle around the boulder and pulled the trigger. The AK-47 bucked wildly, akin to holding a mongoose by the scruff of the neck. Sudden shouts of alarm. I had surprised the hell out of them, temporarily stopping the deluge of bullets.

  I said to the professor, “You follow my lead.”

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Just watch,” I said.

  The bullets picked up again, almost tentatively so, smacking against the rock, zipping by overhead. I took a deep breath and pulled the spring from the grenade, arming it.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  My mental timer ticked off the seconds: Five one hundred.

  I heard the muted hiss of the grenade’s fuse as I gripped it the same way I threw my fastball back in college.

  Four one hundred.

  I stood. Muzzles flashed from around tents and equipment—where the soldiers had sought refuge.

  Three one hundred.

  Bullets whipped by overhead, a little too close for comfort. I briefly took aim—

  Two one hundred.

  And threw the grenade as far as I could. It arced slightly in the air, like a throw from right field to home plate. The soldiers stopped firing and turned to observe the small oblong object that had just landed among them. As recognition set in, a shout of alarm erupted in unison. Soldiers scattered in all directions.

  The grenade rolled to a stop near one of the two helicopters, and I ducked behind the boulder, waiting. Almost in succession, two distinct explosions ripped through the cool air. The first was from the grenade itself, and the second was the fuel tank from the closest chopper. The ground jolted as a fountain of fire gushed into the sky, a geyser from hell. Burning pieces of metal and wreckage flipped through the air.

  Such a fragment hit the snow in front of us just a few feet away, a burning section of the helicopter’s cockpit, hissing in the snow. The plastic and glass had melted and fused together.

  “Mother of God,” whispered Caesar. “That’s a hell of a distraction.”

  Men were screaming, howling. Some seriously injured. It was unfortunate that they were between me and Faye. I grabbed Caesar by the sleeve. “C’mon. Let’s get out of this stink hole.”

  ***

  We kept low to the ground.

  To our right, the helicopter was a smoldering fire of unrecognizable wreckage. Meltwater flowed from under the burning mass, as the chopper sank into the melting glacier.

  Most of the action, however, was centered around Omar’s tent. And then I saw why. A section of the Arab’s tent had burned away, leaving a gaping hole.

  Had Faye been hurt? Something inside me wanted to die. Christ, what if she got hurt?

  There was no time to think about it because a soldier, tending to an injured comrade, spotted us and swung his weapon around, firing a volley that went high overhead. He adjusted his sights and a trail of mini explosions followed at our heels. Running, I returned his fire. Turns out my aim was pretty good. The fabric of his coat shredded as I nearly cut him in half.

  There were no other challengers. And soon we came upon the launcher. It sat like a black insect against the darkening sky. A disconcerting hum emanated it. I knew the sound well. It was armed.

  ***

  Jabbar led the way to a series of wooden shacks off to the side, explaining that this is where the computerized launch direction console was located. For the time being we had gone unnoticed.

  He pushed his way through a heavy door and we stepped out of the wind. He flicked on a track of halogen lighting.

  The shack was a pyromaniac’s dirty dream. Coils of black powder wires. Detonator caps. Many things marked: Dangerous, Highly Flammable And/Or Explosive! Skulls and crossbones abounded.

  Jabbar went immediately over to the launch box in one corner of the room and punched a sequence of numbers on a rubber pad. The black box clicked open. Tangled wires spilled out. The wires looked more like a spaghetti dinner gone amok. Jabbar lifted the plastic coils and frowned. He scratched his head and mumbled something about the wires in Turkish. He mumbled that they looked like a spaghetti dinner gone amok. I glanced inside the box and saw an electronic counter. There were ten minutes left before launching.

  “Get to work,” I told Jabbar.

  There were three entrances into the workroom/shack. I moved back and forth between the west and south entrance, while Caesar covered the north entrance. The hallways were empty. I could hear muted shouts from outside, mixed with machine gun fire. I wondered just who the hell they were shooting at.

  Caesar’s gray eyes were distorted behind his broken glasses. He took them off and rubbed them. I asked how things were going on his end, and he said fine. I saw that his clothing was torn. His hair disheveled. Cut and battered, he looked little like the distinguished professor I knew him to be.

  I glanced inside the control box. Six minutes.

  “Hurry, Jabbar!”

  He waved me off with a flick of his wrist. He was punching in sequence after sequence of numbers. Also, he appeared to be re-routing the cables. Finally, Jabbar stepped back and held his arms out dramatically like a Broadway singer. “It is done,” he proclaimed.

  “Then why is the counter still counting?” I asked.

  Jabbar frowned. “Hmm.” He tapped a fingernail on his small front teeth. He reached inside the black box and poked around a bit more.

  More shouts from outside. The machine gun fire had trailed off to a few scattered pops, perhaps as the soldiers realized we were not out there. I moved from doorway to doorway. I could feel the sweat on my brow. We were rapidly running out of time. Caesar continued to peer down the hallway, squinting through his damaged glasses.

  “Hurry, Jabbar!” I said.

  “Believe me, my friend, you don’t want to rush me. I am the last person in the world you want to rush. And, quite frankly, you’re making me nervous.”

  “Point taken. Now hurry!”

  Three minutes….

  We waited another minute, Jabbar mumbling incoherently, fingers working frantically. He emerged from the box again, perspiration dotting his brow. “I think she’s ready.”

  “Then why is it still counting?”

  “This is getting to be bothersome,” he said. “I am most embarrassed, my friend,” said Jabbar. He scratched his head and seemed to turn a shade red.

  We were down to the last minute. Jabbar hummed to himself, impervious to the fate of thousands. I stuck the gun behind his ear. “That missile goes off, then your head goes off with it.”

  Thirty seconds…

  “Ah, yes, this should be it!” His fingers danced crazily. “There!”

  The clock, inevitably, was still counting down.

  “Why does it keep doing that?” he moaned, frustrated.

  Ten seconds. I pressed the gun against the back of his head. My hand shook. Sweat stung my eyes. Five seconds. He squealed with delight, like a pig at the sight of a trough of muck. He seized two wires, one red, one black. He held each in a hand.

  And pulled them apart.

  The counter stopped at 2 seconds.

  I lowered the gun and exhaled. Jabbar turned and grinned, and then his eyes widened in horror.

  ***

  Caesar gasped and I heard his weapon clatter to the wooden floor.

  I swung my AK-47 around just as Caesar was raising his hands high into the air, the barrel of a Luger pressed into his swollen nose, forcing his broken glasses up over his forehead. The man grinning behind the gun was Kazeem. His dark gaze flicked my way. “Put your weapon down, Mr. Ward.”

  I did as I was told.

  Caesar glanced in my direction. “I’m sorry, Sam. He came from the left. Hell, I thought there was a wall to the left. I think I need a new pair of glasses.”

  “Shut up, fool.” Kazeem’s eyes were wide and wild, completely unstable. He pushed Caesar away and pointed the weapon at Jabbar. “Step away from the black box.” He spoke in English, perhaps for the benefit of us all.

  And when Jabbar stepped away, Kazeem promptly shot him in the neck, a small red flower instantly appearing above his collar, blossoming rapidly. The concussion echoed loudly in the small room. Jabbar fell forward to his knees, and then flat on his stomach. He was dead before he hit the ground. Kazeem’s eyes glowed with pleasure, my candidate for Sociopath of the Year.