Impact (15 page)

“Give it to me,” Ford said.

Ford took the pack and removed an envelope. It had already been torn open and examined. He handed it to Six.

“What this?”

“That’s the letterhead of Atlantic Vermögensverwaltungsbank, in Switzerland. It contains a numbered back account and authorization code. Please note the amount on deposit: one-point-two million Swiss francs, or about one million dollars. With that money, you’ll be able to settle down somewhere, safe from harm, and live the rest of your days in comfort and ease, surrounded by your children and grandchildren.”

Six removed a linen cloth from a pocket and slowly passed it across his brow.

“All you have to do,” Ford said, “is present this letter and the code to collect your money. The bearer of the letter and code gets the money—do you understand?
Whoever
it is. But there’s a catch.”

“Yes?”

“If I don’t show up in Siem Reap within forty-eight hours and report in, the money vanishes from the account.”

Six mopped his brow again. Ford glanced at Tuk. He wasn’t sweating; he was frowning and staring at the spindly cloud disappearing in the sky above the hill.

Tuk spoke: “That was a small missile. I think maybe we should send a man up the hill to check it out.” He turned to Ford and smiled broadly.

Ford checked his watch. “Be my guest. You’ve got fifty minutes left.”

Tuk regarded him through the slits of his eyes. “That’s enough time.” He turned and said something to Six in dialect, who gave orders in dialect to one of the soldiers, a small, wiry boy of no more than eighteen. The boy put down his gun, took off his ammo belt, and stripped down to black pajama pants and a loose shirt. Six pulled a 9mm out of his belt, checked the magazine, and gave it to the boy, along with a walkie-talkie. The boy disappeared like a flash into the jungle.

“He will reach the hill in fifteen minutes,” said Tuk. “And then we will see if that was a missile strike—or a fake.” He smiled and stared at Ford, his eyes opening all the way for the first time, giving him a comic, surprised look that was even more creepy.

They waited. Outwardly Ford remained calm. Khon, apparently, had not had time to reach the double-topped hill. And it seemed he hadn’t been able to lay his hand on much explosives—it had been a rather anemic explosion.

The tension on the verandah increased.

“Ten minutes,” said Tuk, with another rotten smile.

The shoulders shifted uneasily. Six sweated. He read through the letter again, folded it up, put it in the envelope, and slipped it inside his shirt.

“Five minutes,” said Tuk.

Another
boom
echoed across the valley and a fiery cloud rose above the jungle trees, billowing upward. Six fumbled a walkie-talkie off his belt and yelled into it, trying to make contact with the soldier. Nothing but static. He tossed it aside and scanned the empty sky with his binoculars. “I not see drone!” he screamed.

Ford kept his attention on Tuk. The old man had shifted his attention from the hill to Ford and was staring at him with canny brown eyes. A long, hard stare.

“Whoever presents the letter, you or your proxy,” Ford repeated slowly, “gets the money.” He looked at Tuk as he said this, and saw understanding in the man’s wickedly intelligent eyes.

With a single smooth motion, Tuk removed a 9mm pistol from his belt, aimed it at Six’s head, and fired. The white-haired man’s head jerked to one side, his face a mask of pure astonishment, his brains splattering loudly across the verandah floor. He crumpled with a soft flop and lay still, his eyes remaining wide open.

The soldiers jumped as if shot themselves, swinging their weapons wildly around toward Tuk, their eyes bugging out.

Speaking calmly in Khmer, Tuk said, “I am in charge now. You work for me. Do you understand? Each of you gets a bonus of one hundred American dollars for your cooperation, payable right now.”

A moment of confusion and it was over. Each soldier pressed his hands together and bowed toward Tuk.

The tall Cambodian bent down and neatly slid the letter from Six’s jacket pocket, rescuing it just before the soaking puddle of blood overran the floor. He slipped it into his pocket and turned to Ford with a faint smile. “What now?”

“Order your soldiers to clear the camp. Of everyone: guards, prisoners, miners. If the CIA finds itself bombing workers remaining in the camp you won’t get your money. The bombs will begin dropping in . . .” he checked his watch, “thirty minutes.”

Quietly, Tuk went into the house and a minute later returned carrying a bundle of twenties wrapped in plastic. He counted out five twenties for each soldier, then gave each one an extra twenty and told them to clear the camp and drive everyone into the jungle—the Americans would begin bombing in thirty minutes.

As they ran down the trail, firing their weapons into the air, Tuk held out his hand to Ford. “I always liked doing business with the Americans,” he said, with a faint smile.

Ford managed, with some effort, to smile in return.

27

Abbey stared at the green sweep of the radar scope as the
Marea
chugged along in the heavy fog at five knots, condensation streaming off the windows of the pilothouse.

“My poor aching head,” said Jackie. “Don’t make me do this.”

“We’re almost there.”

“You’re a regular Bligh.” Jackie popped the top off a Tylenol bottle and shook out two pills, then cracked a beer and took a pull. She held it toward Abbey. “Little hair of the dog?”

Abbey shook her head, still staring at the radar. “There’s that boat again.”

“Boat? What boat?”

“There.” She pointed to a green blob on the radar screen, about half a nautical mile behind them.

“What kind of boat?”

“I dunno. A smallish one. I think it’s been following us.”

“How do you know it’s not some lobsterman?”

“Who’d be lobstering in this fog?” Abbey fiddled with the gain on the radar. “I can’t see shit.”

“Cut the engine,” said Jackie.

She did and they drifted, listening. “You hear that?”

“Yeah,” Jackie said.

“That boat’s been hanging on our ass for a couple of hours now.”

“Why would someone be following us?”

Abbey restarted the engine. “To steal our treasure?”

Jackie laughed. “Maybe your cover story was too good.”

Abbey throttled up, keeping an eye on the little green blob of the boat, waiting for it to move. But it didn’t. It just stayed where it was.

She made a course for the lee end of Shark Island, going slow. It wouldn’t take long to explore. It was basically a treeless hump in the middle of the ocean, with a gradual slope at one end and a steep bluff at the other, which, from a distance, gave it the appearance of a shark fin. She had never been on the island and didn’t know anyone who had. The fog was so thick Abbey could barely see the bow rail.

“Damn, Abbey, you really think we’ll find that meteorite?”

Abbey shrugged.

“When in doubt,” said Jackie, “smoke some reefer.”

“No thanks.”

She went to roll one.

“We have work to do,” Abbey said in irritation. “Can’t you wait?”

“All work and no play makes Jackie a dull girl.”

Abbey sighed while Jackie scratched away at the lighter, which refused to operate in the damp air. “I’m going below.”

They were now about half a mile from Shark. Abbey throttled down, keeping her eye on the chartplotter and sonar. There were reefs and ledges all around the island and, with a falling tide, Abbey didn’t want to risk getting too close. She throttled into neutral.

“Jackie, drop anchor.”

Jackie came up, joint in hand, and looked around. “Thickafog, as my grandfather would say.” She stuffed the roach into her pot tin, went forward, and pulled the anchor pin. “Ready?”

“Let ’er go.”

Jackie shoved the anchor over and let it run out to the bottom. Abbey reversed the boat while Jackie played out the rode, set the anchor, and cleated it off.

Jackie came back. “So where’s the island?”

“Due south about two hundred yards. I didn’t dare go in closer.”

“Two hundred yards? I ain’t rowing.”

“I’ll row.”

Abbey tossed into the dinghy a pick, shovel, bucket, coil of rope, a backpack with sandwiches and Cokes, as well as the usual matches, Mace, flashlights, and a canteen of water.

“What’s with the pick and shovel?” asked Jackie.

“Because the meteorite’s got to be here.” She tried to put some conviction into her voice. Who was she fooling? This was the story of her life, one dumb-ass idea after another.

Balancing on the gunwale, Abbey scrambled into the dinghy and set the oars in the oarlocks, while Jackie settled herself in the stern. “You hold the compass and point,” Abbey said.

Jackie cast off and Abbey began to row. The
Marea
vanished in the mist. Pretty soon they passed a rock sticking above the water like a black tooth, ringed with seaweed. Another rock and another. The sea rose and fell in an oily swell. There wasn’t a breath of wind. Abbey could feel the wetness of the fog collecting in her hair, on her face, running down into her clothes.

“I can see why you didn’t want to bring the boat in here,” Jackie said, peering around at the rocks looming out of the fog, some standing six feet high, looking almost like human figures rising from the water. “Creepy.”

Abbey pulled.

“We could be the first people to land on Shark Island ever,” said Jackie. “We should plant a flag.”

Abbey kept pulling. Her heart was sinking. It was pretty much over. There wasn’t going to be any meteorite.

“Hey, Abbey, I’m sorry I bitched at you back there. Even if we don’t find a meteorite, we had an adventure.”

Abbey shook her head. “I just keep thinking about what you said, how I’ve fucked up my life, dropping out of college. My father saved up for years to pay my tuition. Here I am, twenty years old, living at home and waitressing in Damariscotta. Loser.”

“Cut it out, Abbey.”

“I owe eight thousand dollars, and my father
still
has to pay.”

“Eight thousand? Wow. I didn’t know that.”

“My father gets up at three thirty to set his traps, works like a dog. He raised me himself after Mom died. And here I am, stealing his boat. Why am I such a despicable daughter?”

“Parents are supposed to work their fingers to the bone for their kids. That’s their job.” Jackie tried to laugh. “Whoops, here we are.”

Abbey looked over her shoulder. The dark shape of the island rose up behind them. There was no beach, just seaweed-covered rocks in the mist.

“Prepare to get wet,” said Abbey.

The boat bumped into the closest flat rock and Abbey maneuvered it around sideways, got out, and held the painter. The swell swirled up around her legs and fell while she braced herself. Jackie tossed out the pick, shovel, and backpack and climbed out. They pulled the boat up and looked around.

It was a wild scene of desolation. A massive jumble of split granite boulders rose up before them, jammed with shattered tree trunks, wrecked fishing gear, broken buoys, and frayed rope. The rocks were white with seagull guano and above them, invisible birds wheeled and cried in angry protest.

Abbey shouldered the pack. They scrambled over the fringing scree of flotsam and climbed up the sloping rocks, finally reaching the edge of a saw grass meadow. The island angled upward toward the tip of the bluff, capped by a giant wedge of broken granite like a dolmen, deposited by the glaciers. The saw grass gave way to gooseberry bushes and wind-screwed bayberry. They reached the granite slab and walked past it, toward the bluff end of the island.

On the far side of the slab, Abbey halted, staring. “Oh my God.”

In front of her was a fresh crater, five feet in diameter.

28

Ford followed the soldiers down the trail and found the mining camp a scene of chaos, the dust rising, soldiers fleeing and miners milling about, shocked and confused, unable to comprehend what was happening. Others, including entire families, were running, hobbling, or limping away into the forest, some carrying or helping along their sick.

Looking about for Khon, he finally spied the familiar round figure jogging down from the edge of the forest, carrying a pack. He caught up to Ford, heaving, his face coated with sweat. “Mr. Mandrake! Greetings.”

“Nice work, Khon.” Ford unzipped the pack, pulled out a handheld RadMeter. He switched it on, took a reading. “Forty millirems per hour. Not bad.”

Khon looked at the bloodstains on Ford’s shirt. “What’d they do to you?”

“You were a little late with the fireworks, my friend. Almost too late.”

“I had a bit of trouble stealing the dynamite from the shed. I only had time to reach the closest hill.”

“How’d you handle the soldier who came to inspect?”

“I figured they might do that. I divided the charge and set a second one as a booby trap. Poor fellow.”

“Clever.” Ford pulled a digital camera and GPS out of the pack. He tossed the GPS to Khon. “You mark waypoints. I’m taking pictures.”

“Right, boss.”

Ford approached the mouth of the mine shaft, holding out the RadMeter. It was a clearly an impact crater, layers of ejecta sprayed out in a radial pattern, all brecciated rock and shatter cones.

“Eighty millirems,” Ford said. “It’s still fairly low up here. We can stand an hour of this at least before we have to worry.”

He cautiously peered into the pit. The crater sloped inward ever steeper, turning into a vertical shaft of about ten feet in diameter with walls of fused glasslike material. Lights were strung on wires attached to the sides of the shaft, with two sets of bamboo ladders going down to what appeared to be a gem-bearing layer. The generator powering the electricity was still running in a nearby shed. A massive scaffolding of bamboo above the pit supported a winch and cargo net for raising and lowering equipment.

Ford stared into the hole, increasingly mystified. It was an incredibly deep crater—bottomless, it seemed—as if the impactor had just kept right on going. He took some pictures of the shaft, then finished up with a panoramic set of pictures all around, three hundred and sixty degrees. He took a set of readings from the RadMeter at fixed distances.