The Storm

CHAPTER 18

“RIDING IN THIS THING MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I’M HEADED to Woodstock in the desert,” Joe said, talking over the VW’s engine noise and peering into the dark.

“Let’s hope it’s not quite as crowded,” Kurt replied.

He and Joe drove through the night. When they reached the waypoint, they pulled off the desert track and parked the VW behind the curved slope of a sand dune.

While Joe brushed away the tire tracks, Kurt pulled out a tarp. He peeled a thin film off the topside of the tarp, exposing an adhesive layer. Laying the tarp facedown and dragging it across the ground caused the adhesive to pick up a fine layer of sand as grains stuck to its surface.

Satisfied, Kurt flung the tarp over the top of the VW, staked it in the ground and dumped several small bucket loads of sand on the top.

Joe returned just as Kurt finished. Joe blinked as if his eyes were deceiving him.

“What happened to the VV?”

“I made it invisible,” Kurt said, heaving a small backpack over his shoulders. “No one’s going to spot it.”

“Yeah,” Joe said, “probably not even us. I lose my car in the parking lot, this I might never find.”

Kurt hadn’t really considered that. He looked around for landmarks, but the desert offered only endless dunes in every direction. He pulled out a GPS receiver and dropped a pin, marking the location of the hiding spot. He hoped that would help.

As Joe pulled on his own backpack, Kurt slid a pair of snowshoes on his feet. They were modern carbon fiber design, not the tennis rackets of old, but they would do the same thing: spread his weight out over a wider area and allow him to walk on top of the sand instead of sinking in and trudging through it with every step.

Joe donned a similar pair, and the two men began hiking.

Ninety minutes later they crested the latest in a series of endless dunes. As they reached the top, they caught wind of a helicopter approaching from the south.

Scanning around for the source of the noise, Kurt spotted a flashing red beacon in the sky. It looked to be no more than two or three miles away, cruising at five hundred feet and headed straight for them.

“Get down,” Kurt said, dropping flat to the ground and trying to burrow in the sand like a sidewinder.

Joe did the same, and in a moment they were just about covered up to their necks. Despite this camouflage, the helicopter continued toward them, never deviating or changing course.

“This looks bad,” Joe whispered.

Kurt’s hand found the holster on his hip and the .50 caliber Bowen revolver inside it. The gun was a cannon, though it wouldn’t do much good against a helicopter unless he made a couple of perfectly lucky shots.

He locked onto the red light. A dimmer green light glowed on the other side. If it came to it, Kurt would aim right between the two and empty the cylinder in hopes of hitting something vital.

He heard Joe unlatch his own pistol, likely planning to do the same, when a thought occurred to him: if they’d been spotted and the copter sent out to hunt them down, why wasn’t it blacked out?

“Nice of them to leave their nav lights on for us to aim at,” he said.

“You think they made a mistake?”

The helicopter continued toward them, now only a quarter mile away and still descending but also changing course.

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

The helicopter thundered past, two hundred feet above them and a couple hundred yards to the west.

Kurt watched it pass and tracked its course. Seeing no other aircraft trailing it, he pulled out of the sand and raced after it. He made it to the bottom of the dune and clambered up the top of the next one, throwing himself flat against the sand as he reached the peak.

Joe hit the ground next to him. Ahead of them the helicopter slowed to a hover, descending toward a dark shape that rose from the desert floor like a ship on the sea.

A band of low-intensity lights came on, marking a circle on the top of the “ship.” The helicopter adjusted, pivoting slowly and then settling onto the rocky bluff.

“Looks like we’ve found the compound,” Kurt said.

“We’re not the only ones,” Joe replied.

Lights could be seen approaching from the southwest. It looked like a small convoy, maybe eight or nine vehicles. It was hard to count the headlights with all the dust they were kicking up.

“I thought Dirk said this place didn’t get much traffic?”

“Apparently it’s rush hour,” Kurt replied. “Let’s hope they’re not here on our account.”

As the vehicles pulled up in front of the bluff, the quiet desert filled with commotion. The headlights blazed and the dust swirled and voices rose through it, not arguing but discussing something tersely in Arabic. Armed men appeared from the mouth of a cave and walked out to greet the newcomers.

On the bluff above, the helicopter was shutting down. Two men climbed out and made their way toward the side of the cliff, disappearing into what looked like a hole cut out of the rock. Kurt guessed it was some kind of tunnel or hidden entrance.

“Come on,” he said, “while the valet’s busy with all those cars.”

Kurt backed down the sand dune for a few paces and began to scamper along it. Joe followed, trying to catch up.

“What are we going to do?” Joe asked. “Walk right in and pretend we’re with the band?”

“No,” Kurt said. “We make our way around the back by that landing pad. I saw the passengers from that chopper disappear without climbing down. Somewhere on top there must be a way in. All we have to do is find it.”