Sandstorm (Page 115)

A pair of commandos unreeled a long wire through a gap in the wreckage.

All was in order.

Cassandra swung to the sand cycle and mounted it. She tightened her muffler and goggles, then set off topside. It would be another fifteen minutes until the charges were set. She sped up the path and climbed out of the sinkhole.

As she cleared the rim, the force of the sandstorm spun her around. Fuck, it had already grown stronger. She fought for traction, found it, and raced to the command base sheltered inside one of the few cinder-block buildings still standing. The parked trucks circled it.

She skidded to a stop, propped the bike against the wall, and hopped off.

She strode through the door.

Injured men sprawled on blankets and cots. Many had been wounded from the firefight with Painter’s strange team. She had heard the reports of the women’s combat skills. How they appeared out of nowhere and vanished just as easily. There was no estimate even on their numbers.

But now they were all gone. Down the hole.

Cassandra crossed to one cot. A medic worked on an unconscious man, taping a last butterfly suture over the cheek laceration. There was nothing the medic could do about the big lump above his brow.

Painter might have the nine lives of a cat, but he hadn’t landed on his feet this time. He had struck a glancing blow to the head. The only reason he lived was the loose sand along the inside rim of the sinkhole, cushioning his fall.

From the heavy-lidded glances from her men, they weren’t so appreciative of Painter’s good luck. They all knew of John Kane’s bloody end.

Cassandra stopped at the foot of the cot. “How’s he doing?”

“Mild concussion. Equal and responsive pupils. The bastard’s only knocked cold.” “Then wake him up. Smelling salts.”

The medic sighed, but obeyed. He had other men, his own men, to attend to. But Cassandra was still in charge. And she still had a use for Painter.

12:42 A.M.

S O WHAT do we do?” Omaha asked. “Row? Get out and push?” From the bow of the boat, he stared back. The entire company had boarded the fanciful dhow. Barak hunched over the ship’s tiller. Clay knelt and scratched at a bit of the gold leaf. Danny and Coral appeared to be studying the structure of the rudder, leaning over the stern and staring down. The Rahim spread out, examining details.

The dhow was even more impressive up close. Gold leaf adorned most every surface. Mother of pearl embellished knobs. The stanchions were solid silver. Even the ropes had gold threads woven into them. It was a royal barge.

But as pretty as it was, it was not much use as a sailing vessel. Not unless a stiff wind would suddenly blow.

Behind Omaha, Kara and Safia stood at the prow, flanking the iron figurehead of the Queen of Sheba. The hodja leaned on her walking stick.

“So touch it,” Kara urged Safia. The hodja had recommended the same.

Safia had her good arm crossed under her sling, her face lined with worry. “We don’t know what will happen.” In her eyes, Omaha saw the flash of fire from the trilith chamber’s eruption. Safia glanced to the new crew of the dhow. She feared endangering them, especially by her own hand.

Omaha stepped to her side. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Saff, Cassandra is going to be coming down here, guns blazing. I’d personally rather take my chances with this iron lady than with that steel-hearted bitch.” Safia sighed. He felt her relax under his palm, surrendering.

“Hold on,” she whispered. She reached out and touched the shoulder of the iron statue, the way Omaha was touching her. As her palm made contact, Omaha felt a slight electric tingle shiver through him. Safia seemed unaware.

Nothing happened.

“I don’t think I’m the one to—”

“No,” Omaha said, cutting her off. “Hold firm.”

He felt a gentle tremble underfoot, as if the waters under the ship had begun to boil. Ever so slowly the boat began to move forward.

He swung around. “Free the ropes!” he called to the others.

The Rahim moved swiftly, loosening ropes and ties.

“What’s happening?” Safia asked, keeping her palm in place.

“Barak, you got the tiller?”

Near the stern, the man acknowledged this with a wave of an arm.

Coral and Danny hurried forward. The tall woman lugged a large case.

The boat’s speed gently increased. Barak aimed them toward the open mouth of the flooded tunnel. Omaha raised his flashlight and clicked it on. The beam was lost in the darkness.

How far did it go? Where did it go?

There was only one way to find out.

Safia trembled under his palm. He stepped closer, his body next to her. She didn’t object, leaning back slightly. Omaha could read her thoughts. The boat hadn’t blown up. They were still okay.

Coral and Danny were bent over the side of the boat again, their flashlights shining. “Can you smell the ozone?” she said to Omaha’s brother.

“Yeah.”

“Look how the water’s steaming where the iron meets it.”

Curiosity drew all their eyes.

“What are you guys doing?” Omaha asked.

Danny pushed back up, face flushed. “Research.”

Omaha rolled his eyes. His brother was forever a science geek.

Coral straightened. “There’s some catalytic reaction going on in the water. I believe it was triggered by the iron maiden. It’s generating some propulsive force.” She leaned over the rail again. “I want to test this water.” Danny nodded, a puppy wagging his tail. “I’ll get a bucket.”

Omaha left them to their science project. Right now, all he cared about was where they were going. He noted Kara eyeing him…no, him and Safia.

Caught staring, Kara glanced away, toward the dark tunnel.

Omaha noted the hodja doing the same. “Do you know where this is taking us?” he asked the old woman.

She shrugged. “To the true heart of Ubar.”

A silence settled over the boat as they continued down the long, dark throat. Omaha stared up, half expecting a night sky. But not here.

Here they sailed hundreds of feet under the sand.

12:45 P.M.

P AINTER WOKE with a start, gasping, choking, eyes burning.

He attempted to sit up but was shoved back down. His head rang like a struck bell. Light burned icily. The room shuddered. He rolled to the side and vomited over the edge of a cot. His stomach clenched again and again.

“Awake, I see.”

The voice chilled the feverish pain from his body. Despite the glare and pain of the sharp lights, he faced the woman at the foot of his bed. “Cassandra.” She was dressed in dun-colored fatigues with a knee-length poncho, belted at the waist. A hat hung by a cord behind her, a scarf around her neck. Her skin glowed in the light, her eyes shining even brighter.