“All this must have been too deep for the surface detectors. Time to go low-tech.” Omaha pulled free a notepad and pencil. With compass in hand, he began mapping out the trilith. “So what about those keys?”
“What about them?”
“If they’re from the time of Ubar’s downfall, how did they end up in a statue from 200 B.C.? Or at Job’s tomb? Ubar fell in A.D. 300.”
“Look around you,” Safia said. “They were skilled artisans in sandstone. They must have found those holy sites, balanced whatever energy source lies within these keys. Antimatter or whatever. And burrowed the artifacts into elements already at the tombs: the statue in Salalah, the prayer wall at Job’s tomb. Then they sealed them over again with sandstone with a skill that left their handiwork undetectable.”
Omaha nodded, continuing his sketching.
The bark of the radio startled them both. It was Painter. “Safia, I have the artifacts. I’ll be returning with water and a couple MRE rations. Anything else you need? The winds are becoming fierce.”
She considered, staring at the walls around her, then realized something that might come in handy. She told him.
“Roger that. I’ll bring it.”
As she signed off, she found Omaha’s eyes on her. He glanced too quickly to his notepad.
“Here’s the best I could sketch,” he mumbled, and showed her his diagram.
“Any thoughts?” she asked.
Sandstorm
“Well, traditionally the three stones of the trilith represent the celestial trinity. Sada, Hird, and Haba.”
“The moon, the sun, and the morning star,” Safia said, naming them as they were known today. “A trinity revered by the early religions of the region. Again the queen was showing no preferential treatment between the faiths.”
“But which stone slab represents which celestial body?” Omaha asked.
She nodded. “Where to begin?”
“In the morning, I’d say? The morning star appears at dawn in the southeast sky.” Omaha patted the appropriate wall. “So that seems obvious enough.”
“Which leaves us two other walls,” Safia said, taking over. “Now the northern wall is aligned along the east-west axis, straight as an arrow.”
“The path the sun takes across the sky.”
Safia brightened. “Even that little hollow square in the north wall could represent a window, to let sunlight inside.”
“Then that leaves this last wall to be the moon.” Omaha stepped to the southwest wall. “I don’t know why this one represents the moon, but Sada was the predominant deity to the desert tribes of Arabia. So it must be significant.”
Safia nodded. In most cultures, the sun was the major divinity, paramount, life-giving, warming. But in the searing deserts, it was deadly, merciless, unforgiving. So instead, the moon, Sada, was most worshiped for its cooling touch. The moon was the bringer of rain, represented by the bull with its crescent-shaped horns. Each quarter phase of the moon was named Il or Ilah, which over the years came to be known as a term for God. In Hebrew, El or Elohim. In Arabic, Allah.
The moon was paramount.
“Still, the wall appears blank,” Omaha said.
Safia neared him. “There must be something.” She joined the search. The surface was rough, pocked in places.
A crunch of sand announced Painter’s arrival.
Omaha climbed halfway up the ladder and passed supplies to Safia below.
“How’re things going in there?” Painter called as he lowered a plastic gallon of water.
“Slow,” Safia said.
“But we’re making progress,” Omaha interjected.
Painter leaned into the wind. Unburdened as he was, it looked like the next strong gust might kite him away. Omaha climbed back down. Skitters of windblown sand followed him.
“You’d better get back to the shelter,” Safia called up, worried for Painter’s safety.
He gave her a salute and pushed away into the sandy gale.
“Now where were we?” Omaha asked.
10:18 A.M.
O UT OF the sinkhole, Painter fought through the storm. An eerie night had fallen. Dust covered the sun, casting the world in crimson. Visibility shut down to mere feet in front of his face. He had his night-vision goggles fixed in place, but even they gained only another yard of sightline. He barely saw the gates as he hunched through them.
Among the village buildings, sand flowed underfoot with the winds, as if he were walking along a streambed. His clothes spat with static electricity. He tasted it in the air. His mouth felt chalky, his lips brittle and dry.
Finally, he ducked around into the lee of their shelter. Out of the direct teeth of the storm, he felt capable of taking full breaths. Sand flumed in wild eddies, streaming over the roofline. He walked with one hand along the cinder-block wall.
Feet in front of him, a figure folded out of the swirls of darkness, a ghost taking form. A ghost with a rifle. It was one of the Rahim scouts, on guard. He hadn’t seen her until he was on top of her. He nodded to her as he passed. No acknowledgment. He marched by her to the doorway.
Stopping, he glanced back. She was gone again, vanished.
Was it just the storm, or was it a part of her ability to blend into the background, to cloud perception? Painter stood in front of the door. He had heard the story from Safia, but it seemed too wild to believe. As a demonstration of their mental abilities, the hodja had placed a pale green scorpion on the floor and made it do figure eights in the dust, over and over again, seeming to control it. Was it some trick? Like snake charming?
As he reached to the knob, the winds took a slightly different keen. The roar had grown so constant that he barely heard it anymore. But for a moment, a deeper rumble arose, a sound carried on the wind, rather than the wind itself. He remained still, listening for it again, trying to pierce the veil of sweeping sand. The storm continued its steady growl. The grumble was not repeated.
Was it just the storm? He stared out to the east. He was certain the sound had come from that direction. He yanked open the door and twisted inside, half pushed by the winds.
The room was crowded with bodies. He heard a child crying upstairs. He had no trouble picking Coral out from among the women, an iceberg in a dark sea. She rose from a cross-legged position. She had been cleaning one of her pistols.
Recognizing his worry, she met him in quick strides. “What’s wrong?”
10:22 A.M.
A LL THE trucks gathered in the lee of a dune, lined up as if awaiting the beginning of a parade. Men hunched in the relative shelter of the vehicles, but details were murky in the gloom. They were a quarter mile outside of Shisur.