The same engineering, coming out of KDEC and PWS, had eventually led to the magical machines Kumar now created. The PWS-14 represented the culmination of his achievements in this area. He couldn’t wait for Yousseff to see it. Yousseff, for his part, was on pins and needles with the anticipation. He’d seen the PWS-14 during its construction, but hadn’t seen it since its completion. His smile was that of a young child waiting to open a birthday present.
“Watch this, Youss,” said Kumar. He opened the rear doors of the long trailer like a magician pulling the rabbit out of the hat.
Ba’al and Izzy entered the fabulous Mormon land of Utah in the late afternoon of September 2. The endless blue expanse of the Great Salt Lake was to their right, and the sun was playing its dying rays across the complex peaks of the Wasatch Mountains to the east. Izzy kept the needle rock steady at 73 miles an hour. As the spires of the Temple and Tabernacle of Salt Lake City came into view, Izzy pulled into a truck stop, just long enough for a bathroom break, some cold pizza, and old coffee.
In the back, Catherine Gray was sitting against one wall, knees by her ears, head down, elbows up. The thirst problem had been solved many hours ago. There was plenty of ice water in the coolers, and a few cans of pop and beer were still waiting, unopened. She was no longer worried about dying of thirst, a fear that she had been developing while she was stuck in the money room with Indy. She felt a twinge of guilt. His claustrophobia had been palpable. Imprisoned in the dark and airless room, even she had become anxious and fearful. But Indy, with the emotional baggage that he carried, must have been going through hell. She shouldn’t have left him, and she hoped he’d found a way out by now.
Her focus returned quickly to her own situation. Her problem now had nothing to do with thirst. She had to pee. And her upbringing simply wouldn’t let her do that in someone else’s vehicle. It didn’t matter that the vehicle belonged to drug pirates who would as soon kill her as say good morning. It didn’t matter that they would probably never know. She simply couldn’t do it. But as the hours drifted by, and the pressure reached intolerable levels, she compromised as best as she could. Taking the drinks from one cooler and moving them into the second, as there was no telling how many more hours or days she’d be here, and pouring the ice water from the first into the second cooler as well, she squatted over the empty cooler. She didn’t dare flick on the lighter, given that she was surrounded by several tons of high explosives. She felt her way around, apologized to her deceased mother, and to the owners of the truck, and let her bladder go. “Mom, I’m sorry,” she breathed, feeling a grateful release of pressure. She put the lid back into place, and resumed her cramped posture against the van’s front wall.
She would need to bolt in relatively short order once the unloading process got started. Even if someone took a short glance into the back of the truck, they would quickly notice the smell of urine in the air, and even an oaf would be able to figure out that there was an occupant somewhere in the back of the van. Catherine was surprised that the smugglers hadn’t been into the back of the van already, for the drinks they’d left here. She thanked whatever lucky star was guiding her that they had been pulling over so often; they must be buying drinks rather than coming back for the coolers. She was under no illusions about what she would need to do once the rear door of the van was finally opened. She would have to run like hell. Fortunately, she had lots of experience at that. She also had the advantage of surprise. Depending on location, she might even be able to scoot out of sight before the two drivers of the truck figured out what was going on. If she sprinted the first few hundred feet, she might be able to escape, find a phone, or a police officer, or a friendly face. Anything. But if the truck stopped within a closed space in a compound, she was probably doomed. She started to regret not taking Indy’s advice, and staying at Devil’s Anvil.
44
Back at the Inzar Ghar fortress, Jennifer and Richard were listening to heavy feet tromping down the narrow stone stairs leading to the basement dungeon. Two men, thought Richard, struggling to process information through a veil of Vicodin and pain. Only two.
There was a jangle of keys in the door, and a few words were spoken in Urdu. The best translation that Richard could put to them was “a jolly good time.” Oh, well then, let’s just get a few pints of Guinness going, an irritating voice in his brain answered. The voice shut up when the cell door swung open with a loud metallic creak, and two men entered the small subterranean prison. Both were dark and swarthy, and the smaller man had dull and lifeless eyes.
The two entered the small cell. There were now four of them, Richard realized. Enough people to square dance, the Vicodin added. Guinness and square dancing. Maybe they should switch to spiked lemonade. Fun, fun, fun. Richard tried desperately to bring his imagination to heel. This was no time for jokes, he told himself sternly.
As they walked in, the smaller man let loose with another stream of Urdu, addressing the larger man by name — Marak. Richard tried desperately to remember if he’d ever heard the name before, and who it might have been connected to. Before he could make any progress in that direction, Marak walked right up to him and snarled in his face.
“Are you ready to die slowly, you American Jew pig?”
“Doh-see-doh your partner,” was all Richard could think to say. The words slipped out before the more rational portion of his brain could voice an objection.
In spite of the precarious state of things and the horrendous fate that was awaiting them, or maybe because of them, Jennifer burst into a giggle. The smaller, younger man, with the dead-looking eyes, slapped her hard across the face. “Quiet, bitch,” he hissed in English.
Richard decided to let his giddiness take over just a bit more. Not that he actually had much choice in the matter. “Doh-see-doh, little man,” he babbled, nodding in the other man’s direction.
“What?” Marak hissed.
“And allemande right,” continued Richard, wondering what part of his brain knew the language of square dancing.
Marak put his face inches from Richard. “First I break your bones. Then I rape your bitch right here, in front of you. Then you will die, very, very slowly.”
Just then, the voice of sanity decided to make another appearance from the ever diminishing drug-free portion of Richard’s brain. He had one chance, he remembered. One shot. One move. And only one. He needed to focus all his power and concentration on that one move, and make it count. If he miscalculated, it would be over, and they’d both pay a severe price. He wasn’t going to let that happen. Richard knew exactly what his move was. He had practiced it over and over in his mind, but could he actually do it? How badly had the drugs affected his reflexes, his judgment? If he were 20 again… dammit all to hell, Richard, he told himself. You’re Navy. Or at least you used to be. Not just Navy, but super elite Navy. Tomcats on aircraft carriers, at night, remember?
He recalled the iron concentration he had felt every time the distant aircraft carrier lights came into view. One landing in particular jumped into his mind. It was night. Worse yet, an Indian Ocean storm front had come in, and there were strong cross winds. His concentration locked him unwaveringly on the tiny row of lights in the distance. He was flying by instinct, his hands feeling the engines, his eyes watching the carrier lights approach while simultaneously reading the information on the HUD. Only a few people in the world could do this, and he was one of them. By instinct. By feel.