The Ark tl-1 Page 10

  “Then there’s the problem of the amount of food and water the Ark would have to carry,” Dilara said. “This is one of my personal favorites. One elephant alone eats 150 pounds of food a day. So if you have four elephants, two Asian and two African, for just 40 days that’s 24,000 pounds of food, which also comes out the other end. Now add in rhinos, hippos, horses, cows, and thousands of other animals. Eight people feeding all those animals and cleaning up after them would have been impossible.”

  “Not to mention smelly. And let’s not forget the fact that it would take five times the amount of water there is on Earth to cover all of the continents. Melting the polar ice caps might put Florida under water, but no way would the oceans cover mountains.”

  Dilara looked impressed. “So you know some of the arguments against literal interpretation.”

  “Not really,” Locke said. “But I know science.”

  “Not everyone takes the Bible literally. Some people see the story as an allegory. But even allegories usually have their bases in fact, so alternative theories have been proposed to explain the Flood story. Did you know that the Bible’s story was the not the first?”

  “I know that Flood stories are common themes across many cultures.”

  “But the Bible’s story specifically seems to come from a tale told 1000 years before the Bible was even written. In 1847, archaeologists discovered cuneiform tablets that told the epic of Gilgamesh. Its story of the Deluge is remarkably similar to the one in the Bible, so some historians think the Jewish scholars who wrote the Old Testament based the story of Noah on Gilgamesh.”

  “You still have the problem that, scientifically, it ain’t possible.”

  “Not literally, as written in the Bible. But in 1961, Bill Ryan, an oceanographer at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, discovered that the Mediterranean burst through a dam in the Bosporus Strait sometime around 5600 BC. Until that time, the Black Sea was a freshwater lake 400 feet below sea level. When the dam burst, a waterfall 50 times greater than Niagara Falls filled in the entire Black Sea in a matter of months. Now imagine being a farmer living on the shores of the Black Sea at that time.”

  “I guess you’d have to take all of your family, animals, and belongings, and hightail it out of there.”

  “Possibly by boat,” Dilara said. “With embellishment and a few added miracles, it could have turned into the story of Noah.”

  “I’ll buy that. But it still doesn’t explain how your father found the Ark, how he would even know it was the Ark, how it survived all those millennia, or most importantly, what it has to do with the impending death of billions of people, as your friend Sam Watson claimed.”

  Dilara sat back in her seat and looked out the window. She unconsciously stroked her hair as she thought. Locke caught himself staring at her, and he looked away just before she turned back.

  “You’re a real optimist,” Dilara said. “Is the glass always half empty with you?”

  “With me, the glass is too big. I’m just trying to zero in on the answer. It’s the way I work.”

  “So how do we get those answers?”

  “Sam said the name Hayden. It must have something to do with Rex Hayden’s plane crash. I’ve arranged for us to get a first-hand look at the crash site. I’m guessing the plane was somehow brought down intentionally.”

  “Another bomb?” Dilara’s eyes looked as wide as they did when she found the bomb on the rig.

  “No, it ran out of fuel and crashed. I don’t have many details yet, but I always like to see the crash site itself before we listen to the flight recorder and start the laboratory analyses. Then we’re going to Seattle.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where Coleman’s company is based. There might be something at his office that can shed light on everything that’s happened. We’ll also swing by Gordian headquarters. I’ve got to talk to my boss and let him know what’s going on. We also have a computer data recovery guru who’s the best I’ve ever met. He should be able to help us with our research.”

  “You seem pretty gung ho about this now.”

  “A near-death experience will do that for you.”

  “Now that I survived the attempt to blow up the oil platform, do you think they’ll stop trying to kill me?” Dilara’s voice sounded more frustrated than anything, maybe because she and Locke still had no idea who “they” were.

  Locke shook his head. “Sorry, but they seem like the persistent types. That’s why you’re staying with me from now on.”

  “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

  “Oh, I have no doubt you can. But if we’re going to solve this thing, we need to stick together. Remember, they want to kill me now, too. Maybe even Grant, but they better not even think of going after him.”

  “Why?”

  “They’d be on the wrong end of a whupping if they tangled with Grant. He’s the real deal. He’s a black belt in Krav Maga and an expert in any weapon you can think of.”

  “Not to mention that he’s huge. What’s Krav Maga?”

  “An Israeli form of martial arts. With his wrestling moves, it’s a lethal combination.”

  “He was in Army Special Forces, I bet. What branch? Delta?”

  “I could tell you, but he’d have to kill me.”

  “I remember seeing him on TV one time. He was intense. In person, he’s got such a friendly face.”

  “Normally. But he’s the scariest son of a bitch I’ve ever seen when he’s mad.”

  She leaned over to him. “And what about you? You know Krav Maga?”

  “Grant’s taught me few moves. I can handle myself.”

  “I’ve noticed.” She held his eyes a few more seconds then sat back. “Then I better stick with you.”

  “While we’re trying to figure all this out, is there someone we should keep informed? That you’re safe, I mean?”

  She shook her head. “No one.”

  “What about Mr. Kenner?” Locke glanced at her ring finger. It was bare, no tan line.

  She followed his gaze and splayed her fingers. “Right. You know my maiden name is Arvadi.”

  “Didn’t seem relevant until now.”

  “I got divorced two years ago,” she said. “Another archaeologist. You know how it goes when two people don’t see each other much, traveling all over the world separately. Not enough time together. I decided to keep the name since I’d already established my credentials with it.” She paused. “How about you? Any family?”

  “A younger sister. We were Air Force brats. My father’s still in active service, a general. Runs the Defense Threat Reduction Agency. I don’t see him much now. He didn’t care for my choice of career. Sounds like you and your dad were a lot closer than I am with mine.”

  “Married?” Dilara asked. Her tone was curious, but neutral.

  He shook his head. “Widower.” He didn’t elaborate. The silence grew heavy.

  “Well,” Dilara said, taking the hint, “I think I will get some sleep.”

  “You can have my seat,” a deep voice said from behind Locke. He turned to see Grant standing behind him. “It’s already nice and warm. And Locke told me you wanted to know about some of The Burn’s signature wrestling moves. When you wake up, I’ll tell you about the Detonator. I used that one to win my first match.”

  “I can’t wait to hear about it,” she said with a laugh and moved to the back of the plane.

  Grant took her seat.

  “I like her.” He lowered his voice. “So…it sounded like you two were hitting it off.” He winked. Sometimes Grant went overboard pushing Locke to find someone after his wife died.

  “Just making conversation,” Locke said. He glanced back at Dilara. She was already curled up in the seat, her eyes closed, a blanket wrapped around her. It was the first time Locke had really seen her vulnerable, and Locke felt a overwhelming surge of protectiveness flow through him. He turned back to see that Grant had a silly grin on his face.

  “You
know about my girlfriend?”

  “The woman you met two weeks ago in Seattle is now your girlfriend?”

  “Tiffany,” Grant said. “She’s perfect.”

  “You’ve been on what, two dates?”

  “I know it’s early, but she has the all the qualities of the future Mrs. Westfield. Know how we met?”

  Locke smiled. “At the strip club?”

  “At the athletic club. She just works at a strip club.”

  “Bouncer?”

  “Waitress,” Grant said, feigning annoyance. “Putting herself through nursing school. She’s strong but petite.”

  “I hope she’s not too petite. You could crush her.”

  “You should see her on the bench press. Wow! I noticed her. She noticed me. For a few days, no talking, just looking. But we finally made a connection one day. Know how?”

  “How?”

  “Just making conversation.”

  Locke looked at Dilara again. She was fast asleep.

  “There’s nothing going on,” he said.

  “All right.” Grant didn’t sound convinced.

  “You’re going to be a pain in the ass about this, aren’t you?” Locke said.

  “Oh yeah,” Grant replied.

  Locke sighed. It was going to be a long flight.

  SEVENTEEN

  After landing at McCarren International in Las Vegas, Locke, refreshed from four-hour’s sleep, took the keys to a rental Jeep that was delivered to the Gordian jet and got into the driver’s seat. A GPS navigational unit sat on the dashboard in front of Grant. In a few minutes, they were on Highway 93, which would take them all the way to the crash site.

  “How far away are we?” Dilara asked from the back seat.

  “Judy Hodge, the lead Gordian engineer on site, said it was about eighty miles,” Grant replied. “Smack dab in the middle of nothing. Luckily, it’s only about a mile off 93 on flat ground. If it had been in a canyon or on a mountain, the recovery would take ten times as long.”

  “How long will it take? To figure out what happened, I mean.”

  “Usually, months for the initial findings, and years for the final report.”

  “Years? Sam said we had until Friday, and it’s already Monday morning!”

  “Because this doesn’t look like an accident,” Locke said, “I’ll convince the NTSB to put a rush on the investigation. Grant, I want you take over here.”

  “Oh, you are mean,” Grant said. “To Tiffany, that is.”

  “She’ll live without you for a few more days. We’ll ship all of the wreckage back to the TEC. Put it all in hangar three.”

  “What’s the TEC?” Dilara asked, pronouncing it as a word like Locke did.

  “Gordian’s Test and Engineering Center. It’s in Phoenix, so it won’t take long to move the wreckage there. It’s a 500-acre facility built way out in the desert twenty years ago. Phoenix grew so much in that time that it’s now right outside the suburbs. We have a seven-mile oval test track, a dirt obstacle course, a skid pad, both an indoor and an outdoor crash test sled, and extensive laboratory facilities. There’s also a mile-long runway and five hangars for flight testing.”

  Locke knew he rhapsodized like a proud father when he described the place, but he couldn’t help it. It was Gordian’s crown jewel.

  “So you test for the car companies?” Dilara said. “I thought they had their own tracks and pads and everything.”

  “They do, but a lot of companies want independent testing. Insurance companies, lawyers, tire companies. Our biggest client is the US government. We can test virtually anything on wheels. Everything from bicycles to heavy trucks. In fact, they’re going to be putting a mining truck through its paces day after tomorrow.”

  “Sounds like you enjoy that kind of stuff. Do you get to drive it?”

  “Sometimes, if I get the chance. This truck would be especially fun.”

  “A truck? You’re kidding. Why?”

  “It’s a Liebherr T 282B, a German truck that’s 25-feet tall and an empty weight of 200 tons.”

  “That’s 400,000 pounds,” Dilara said. “I can’t imagine something that size.”

  “It’s the biggest truck in the world. Essentially a three-story building on wheels. When fully loaded, it weighs twice as much as a 747 at takeoff. The tires alone are 12-feet in diameter and weigh more than any car you’ve ever driven. A Wyoming coal mine asked us to test it for them to see if they want to buy it. Our fee is worth it when you’re thinking of buying 20 of them at $4 million a pop.”

  “Sounds incredible.”

  “Unfortunately, since we’re going back to Seattle, I’ll have to wait to take it for a spin.”

  The rest of the ride passed silently. They crossed over Hoover Dam and into Arizona. The harsh desert terrain was dotted with only a smattering of trees. The air shimmered from the heat, the temperature already into the 90s.

  Twenty-six miles north of Kingman, the GPS unit indicated they were at the turnoff, and Locke wheeled the Jeep onto a dirt access road. In another minute, they approached a cluster of vehicles. Thirty vans topped with satellite dishes dotted the sparse landscape. Reporters stood in front of cameras, broadcasting what they knew about the crash that had taken the life of one of the world’s best-known celebrities.

  They drove past the vans to a road block of three Arizona State Police cars. A trooper waved them to a stop.

  “No press past this point,” the trooper said.

  “We’re not journalists,” Locke said. “We’re with Gordian Engineering.” He handed the trooper his ID.

  The trooper took a quick look at it, then handed it back. “They’re expecting you, Dr. Locke. You’ll find them about a half mile ahead.”

  “Thanks.”

  Locke continued on until he reached another set of vehicles. This group was dominated by police cars, fire engines, and coroners’ hearses for evacuating the bodies, but they were also accompanied by three Army Humvees and a hazardous materials tractor-trailer. Next to it, two people in biohazard suits bent over a grim row of black bags that must have contained the remains they had recovered so far. Locke couldn’t guess what the hazmat unit was there for. The plane shouldn’t have been carrying any dangerous chemicals, and any fuel would have burned up long ago.

  A van sat apart from the other vehicles. On its side was the Gordian logo, a mechanical gear surrounding four icons that represented the firm’s areas of expertise: a shooting flame, a lightning bolt of electricity, an airplane superimposed over a car, and a stylized human figure.

  A trim woman in her 30s stood next to the van and spoke into a walkie-talkie. Judy Hodge looked up when she heard the Jeep approaching. She wore a Gordian baseball cap, tank-top, jeans, and latex gloves. When she saw that it was Locke, she put the walkie-talkie on her belt and came over to the Jeep.

  Locke hopped out and shook her hand. She nodded at Grant, and Locke introduced her to Dilara.

  “Good to see you, Judy,” he said. “Looks like a real circus back there.”

  “The police have already caught two reporters who snuck past the barricade,” Judy said. “Plus, we’ve had to fend off souvenir hunters. I’m glad we have G-Tag. We need to get this stuff off site as soon as we can. I never knew how crazy Hayden’s fans could be.”

  G-Tag was a method for processing airplane wreckage that had been developed by Gordian. Each piece of wreckage was photographed with a digital camera, and its exact GPS location was recorded. Then a bar code was printed with a unique ID number and attached to the wreckage. The data was automatically sent to Gordian’s central computers, providing a detailed map of every piece of wreckage as it had been found. The G-Tag system reduced the amount of time needed to document the wreckage by a factor of ten from the previous manual method and meant they could start removing wreckage from the site within hours, preserving the debris from the elements.

  “Have you started shipping wreckage to the TEC yet?” Locke asked.

  “The first tractor-trailer
will arrive in an hour. We’ll have 20 of them running back and forth to the TEC. The main concentration of wreckage is over there.” She pointed at a spot where workers were massed. Locke could only see a few large pieces, including what looked like an engine.

  “When I’m done here, I’m heading back to Seattle with Dr. Kenner. We’ve got to rush this investigation. Judy, you’ll stay here on site until it’s cleared. Grant’s going to take care of processing the wreckage back at the TEC. Now tell me about the crash.”

  They followed Judy into the desert. Locke saw dozens of pieces of metal, luggage, and assorted unidentifiable detritus already tagged with flags for removal. While they walked, Judy told them about the plane’s ghost flight back to the mainland. She’d received an electronic copy of the fighter pilots’ report and related its contents to them.

  Locke stopped at a three-foot-square section of fuselage centered around a blown-out window. He knelt down to look at it as they talked.

  “Any signs of explosive decompression?”

  “None. The plane was completely intact until it hit the ground.”

  Through the empty window frame, Locke saw something white underneath the fuselage catch the sunlight.

  “Do you have any more gloves on you?” Locke asked. They might have missed a separate piece of wreckage under the fuselage section, which was tagged and flagged, meaning it had already been photographed.

  “Sure,” Judy said and handed him a pair of gloves.

  “So we might be looking at a slow oxygen leak?” Locke said as he donned them.

  Judy gave him a quizzical look. “No. Wait, I thought you knew…”

  “Knew what?” Locke said as he turned over the fuselage piece. He stood up in surprise when he saw what was under it. A gleaming white human femur, probably male.

  It wasn’t unusual to find body parts strewn about with the wreckage, but it was strange to find a bone. Especially one that looked like it had been picked clean by scavengers, even though there was no possibility that coyotes had gotten to it under that piece of fuselage.