The Final Prophet

Chapter 1

Friday, May 22, 1:25 a.m.

Somalia

A moth-encased bulb swayed in the off-shore breeze. It drew arcs of light over a man, skeleton thin, dressed in a black, short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned to the waist. A rifle hung from his shoulder. He stood with one foot up on a wooden crate, looking out to the end of the long dock. He turned around and sauntered toward the warehouse. For half a minute he peered into a window before resuming his patrol. His path took him back through the light and out along the dock into the darkness.

Sam Hunter lowered his binoculars.

He lay in the salty sand behind a single acacia on a ridge of tussock grass. A couple of kilometers out in the Indian Ocean, a channel marker’s lazy clang sifted through the chorus of crickets. He drew the back of his hand across his forehead, trading coarse grit for sweat.

He engaged his night vision goggles.

The man’s ghostly green shape continued toward the end of the dock, some thirty meters out from shore. Upon reaching the end, the man turned and walked toward a similar illuminated figure.

A small light flared, then a second. The glowing tips of cigarettes sketched traces of light as the two gunmen stood in conversation. Sam drew a deep breath. This part of an operation always reminded him of the danger of his chosen profession—both the thrill and the fear.

He switched back to the binoculars. Past the two men, he could just make out the Église, floating low in the water, broadside to the dock. According to the specs Commander Dyson had provided, the ship was a small coaster, thirty-two meters long, with low sides, and capable of carrying ninety tons.

And the pirates were murderers.

He held up two fingers to his partner, Jamal, who was barely visible on the far end of the ridge. Jamal returned the gesture before clenching his fingers into a fist, thumb up. Sam nodded, smiling inside. With Jamal as a partner, he had a reasonable chance of pulling off the operation.

He scanned the open water. No movement. Nothing but pinpricks of stars reflecting off the ocean’s calm surface. He found it difficult to believe that a hijacked ship carrying nuclear detonators would be so unguarded.

He wondered if the seizure of the Église had been an inside job, or if the pirates had just gotten lucky. Perhaps they hadn’t yet realized that their prize had something many countries would pay dearly to get—even kill for.

Sam’s job was to see that the classified technology didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Continual satellite reconnaissance had not detected the removal of the crates, although the pirates had carried other objects and smaller boxes to the warehouse at the foot of the dock. His most current intel placed six of the eight-man crew still on board.

The client considered the crew expendable. Except for one, a certain Franco Bruncardo.

Sam’s orders were simple: recover Bruncardo and take out the ship. The specialized charges both he and Jamal carried would ensure that nothing electronic would have any use after the explosion—if the pirates were able to find anything in the rubble. He wasn’t certain where the orders originated. CIA, possibly. Various agencies had contracted his group in the past.

The instructions rankled. When he started eight years ago, he hadn’t expected that destroying a ship’s cargo would be a higher priority than rescuing the crew. Recently, the world’s values had become seriously screwed up. He wondered what was special about Bruncardo.

He flashed a signal at Jamal, and got to his feet. Keeping low, he ran along the side of the ridge until he neared a barricade and guard shack at the end of the road leading to the docks. He knelt by the corrugated steel wall, listening. An air conditioner on the roof hummed its steady drone. Muffled music, a throbbing deep bass, radiated from within.

He glanced back, barely able to discern his partner. A black panther on the heels of its prey, Jamal stalked up the opposite side of the road.

A thin red stripe appeared across Jamal’s legs. He froze then dropped flat onto the sand. Sam knew his partner was silently scolding himself, but neither of them had noticed the perimeter alarm.

A chair scraped inside the shack. Sam swore under his breath, and scrambled around the corner with his back flat to the wall.

The tip of an AK-47 poked out. Sam tensed, ready to take its bearer out.

A series of high-pitched chirps pierced the darkness. Despite the tension, Sam almost laughed. Did Jamal think there were squirrels in Somalia? A camel’s bleat would have been a better choice.

The barrel of the gun came fully into Sam’s view. Jamal’s weird noise sounded again, modulating into the squeal a snared rabbit might make.

The guard stepped out and Sam leapt. He slammed into the man’s arms, knocking the gun to the ground. At the same time, he drove the heel of his palm under the man’s chin. The man’s head snapped back, exposing his neck to Sam’s knife.

The guard thrashed, trying to open his mouth to scream, but Sam kept upward pressure on his chin as he drove him back inside the shack. With his windpipe severed, the man fell silent. Blood spurted from his throat, slowing to a trickle after he stopped moving.

He lowered the guard to the floor and made a quick assessment of the area just outside the shack. Confident that the event had gone unnoticed, he motioned Jamal inside and eased the door closed.

Sam started when a seventies-vintage, black desk-phone rang. Sam picked it up when the bell sounded a second time. He lifted the handset to his ear and listened to a burst of Arabic words. He tried a nondescript grunt for a response. The words resumed, and he thrust the phone at Jamal, who had just slipped in through the door.

Jamal rhymed off a few words in a scratchy voice, cleared his throat, coughed, and said something else. He reached past Sam to place the phone on its cradle.

Are they onto us? Sam asked, keeping his voice low.

Jamal shrugged. He asked about the break in the trip-wire beam and I told him two dhurwaa came along the road.

Dhurwaa?

Hyenas.

So that was a hyena sound you made?

I have no idea what dhurwaas sound like.

Sam gestured to the body on the floor. I suppose this dumb bastard didn’t either. His face darkened. We’d better move in, before his friends come up from the warehouse to check on him. He motioned Jamal out of the shack.

Sam made his way down the road. He ducked down behind a fifty-five gallon drum at the corner of the warehouse. Feeling slightly winded, he drew a few deep breaths. Loud voices, laughter, and the sweet smell of pot wafted from an open window.

Across from him, the single light bulb with its cloud of insects marked the foot of the long L-shaped dock.

Jamal came up beside him, not sounding the least out of breath. Goddamned youngster, Sam thought, although he knew the man was in his early forties, a couple of years older than him. Sam struggled to take deeper, slower breaths, and hoped Jamal didn’t notice his panting.

He evaluated the two options they’d considered. Grenades through the window would take care of the shore party, unless there were more in a back room or the adjacent building. That would announce their presence rather dramatically. On the other hand, if they could surprise the sentries on the dock, they might be able to accomplish their objective without alerting the revelers in the warehouse.

The night vision goggles revealed that the two men were still standing together at the end of the dock, facing the water. The best surprise would be one they never found out about. He hesitated a millisecond. These men belonged to a group of murders. They’d killed at least one member of the Église, the radio man who was transmitting during the hijacking, and others from two previous ships Sam knew they’d hijacked.

He leaned toward Jamal. Let’s take ’em out. You take left.

Jamal nodded and raised his rifle. They both preferred the M4A1 carbine with night-vision scope and sound suppressor. Their subsonic ammunition generated softer reports. While it reduced his effective range, it made the action of the weapon almost silent.

He aligned the crosshairs on his target, steadied his breath, and fired.

Both pirates dropped. Sam put his back against the wall beside the window. The laughter continued unabated. He motioned to Jamal, and the two ran across the road and out along the dock.

Several runabouts with small outboard motors were tethered to cleats along the length of the dock. Sam and Jamal untied each and shoved them away from the dock.

Three quarters of the way out to the end, a sleeker boat, black and menacing, nuzzled against the pier. Its long bow suggested speed, and the machine gun mounted in the back, death.

At Sam’s signal, Jamal nodded. He rummaged through his knapsack and brought out a small package wrapped in brown cloth. He pulled the boat close and stepped on board, while Sam continued toward the Église.

Kneeling, Sam checked that the two fallen men were down for good. Shooting a wounded man was not the way he liked to do things, but he had little sympathy for killers of innocents. Both men were dead.

Resting with its starboard side facing the shore, the Église tugged at the end of its bow and stern lines, nudged by the warm breeze. Sam grabbed the rope and hauled the ship close enough to jump on board. He crept across the deck to the cabin and eased open a door that, he’d learned from the ship’s blueprints, provided access to a set of five steps leading below to the crew quarters.

A man at the foot of the stairs turned toward him. His eyes widened and he made a grab for the rifle hanging under his left arm. Sam dove from the top step, landing on the man’s chest with a flying tackle. The man let out a monstrous groan as he fell back. Sam clasped his hands on each side of the man’s head then drove the man’s skull down, severing the brainstem.

He hurried down the narrow hallway. He kicked open doors on each side, finding nobody. The door at the end was locked. He raised a foot and kicked it open.

Inside the dark room, he heard a shuffling noise, and lowered the goggles. A half-dozen ghost-like forms lay on the floor against the far wall. Hello? he called. Bonjour…er, bonsoir? Anyone? I’m a friend.

Over here, a man’s voice replied. There are six of us.

The forms moved. We are tied, hands and feet, one said. Another responded in French.

Remain still, Sam said. Do everything I tell you and I might get you out of this alive. He drew his knife and moved from one to the next, slicing through ropes.

Merci, the sixth one replied.

Where are the other two? Sam asked.

Louie was killed when our ship was taken, the tallest of the men said, rubbing his wrists.

He was on the radio?

Yes. And Pierre was shot earlier today. The man’s voice rippled with anger.

Why?

He looked like a Jew.

Damn them to hell, Sam said. You’re Captain La Roche?

The man nodded.

Where’s Bruncardo?

A scarecrow of a man stepped forward. I am Bruncardo, he said, with a thick Italian accent.

Come with me. This was the guy the client wanted retrieved.

There’s a package I must not leave behind. Before Sam could stop him, he rushed away, deeper into the ship.

Shit! Sam said, through clenched teeth. Captain, get your men up top. Quietly.

We’re taking the ship?

Not exactly. Get going.

He started after Bruncardo. He found the man in a corridor, stumbling along in the dark. The man carried a wooden box the size of a laptop computer. A padlock clinked against the front edge.

Let’s go, Sam grabbed his elbow and hustled him toward the stairs.

He emerged onto the deck to see Jamal standing with fists on his hips while La Roche and his men were moving about as if readying the ship. Jamal shook his head and held up a hand, fingers spread. Sam nodded, checking his watch. They had five minutes before the semtex would send the ship and most of the dock to hell. The electronic detonator in his pocket could trigger the explosives earlier, but the ship would go up regardless. Even if the charges were located, tamper switches would start the sequence.

Captain, he called, as loudly as he dared, the ship is going to blow. Gather your men now. He jumped over the rail onto the dock and signaled for the rest to follow. Stay close and stay quiet.

Why don’t we just leave with the ship? someone asked.

Shut up and get onto the dock, Sam said. He had no time for questions. Even if he weren’t going to blow the ship, the hulking piece of junk wouldn’t clear the bay before it was hit by a rocket.

He started back up the dock.

A burst from a machine gun ripped across the planks, sending splinters of wood into the air. Sam quickly located the muzzle flashes. He dropped down and readied his weapon. Somewhere behind him, one of the sailors was crying out. A second volley chewed its way up the wooden decking and clanged off the metal sides of the ship.

Jamal began firing. The warehouse door opened and several men stormed out, their bodies silhouetted in the glow of the room lights before they scattered. Automatic fire lit the head of the dock—fireflies of death.

Back to the boat, Sam yelled. Keep low.

He retreated, shooting only when the fireflies gave away their position. He vaulted back onto the ship and scuttled across the deck.

They’re learning, Jamal called from somewhere amidships. Coming up in the dark.

Took ’em long enough, Sam replied. He heard Jamal fire off two rounds and move to a new position.

Got another gun? La Roche asked.

Sam grabbed his arm. How long to lower a zodiac to the water on the far side of the ship?

A couple of minutes, the captain answered. That’s if no one’s shooting at us.

Make that thirty seconds—cut the lines. Sam said.

But—

But nothing. Do it.

Sam crawled sideways to peer through the anchor port. Judging by what he had seen, three attackers were left. Two were approaching on the dock, and one had gone along the pier to take position from a different angle.

A big gun rent the night. A fifty-caliber from somewhere near the warehouse began unleashing hell. The screech of the bullets tearing away the side of the boat was deafening.

He pointed his gun through the port and took one careful shot. The fifty fell silent.

Sam, Jamal shouted. We’ve got to go now.

Get them into the boat, Sam replied. Get them away, straight out, as fast as that thing will take you.

I’m not leaving without you, Jamal called back.

I’ll buy you some time. Just get out of range.

But—

That’s an order, Chief. The fireworks started up again as reinforcements swarmed onto the wharf. He ducked when a stream of bullets raked across the gunwale.

He bit back a cry as something pierced his thigh. The fiery pain shot down his leg.

An outboard motor started up.

He looked at his watch. Eighty seconds.

He gritted his teeth and rolled away from the edge.

Crossing the open deck, he stood on one good leg behind the wheelhouse and looked out to sea. In the center of the zodiac’s wake, a stream of phosphorescence blazed a trail from the ship to the fleeing crew. If the pirates made it on board, the Zodiac would be a simple target. The only thing protecting it now was the bulk of the ship shielding its escape. He had to keep the pirates on the other side.

Too late. He heard the thud of boots landing on the deck. He leaned around the corner and fired. At least he could force the bastards’ heads down. Once they sighted the Zodiac, Jamal and the six crewmen would be easy picking.

A shower of bullets tore at the side of the wheelhouse, chest high. Grimacing, he squatted, poked the gun around the corner and fired from knee height. A man screamed in pain, but his cohorts let loose another volley.

Someone began shouting commands.

They’d circle the wheelhouse, or get him from up top. Both, if he’d been leading the assault. Too bad he didn’t believe in God. Right now he could use some kind of divine intervention from above—like an Apache helicopter with a chain gun.

Sam had one option left to save the Zodiac.

He slipped the detonator from his pocket and flipped off the safety. He climbed onto the gunwale and dove straight out, tracer rounds shredding the air around him.

He pressed the button.

The sea lit up.

A concussive pulse slammed him. The water seemed to close upon him and hurl him forward.

Accompanied by a succession of deafening explosions, the water surged up, then back, then down. His ears sent stabs of pain through his head. In a mass of bubbles his whole body rolled, as if the entire ocean had turned upside down. He needed air. He thrashed, but which way was up?

The water fell away, and for an instant he was suspended in a brilliant yellow-white luminance. His lungs grabbed for air, but the sea reached up to reclaim him.

He took in less air than water but it was enough. His head broke the surface and he spat out a mixture of salty foam, blood, and bile.

He treaded water and looked back at the inferno that had been the Église. Roiling flame and smoke surged upward in billowing clouds that obliterated the stars. Small explosions still peppered the beach. The dock, the ship, the warehouse were all gone. Nothing could have lived through that, nothing.

He shouldn’t have, either. The chances were a million to one.

His brother, Daniel, if he ever found out, would say God saved him. Sam coughed up another foul mouthful and spat. His ass wasn’t even close to being saved yet.

With desperate strokes, and his one good leg, he swam toward the open ocean. Jamal had better come back to find him before the sharks did.

Chapter 2

Thursday, May 28, 10:15 a.m.

Upper New York State.

A throaty rumble signaled the departure of another jet from Buffalo Niagara International Airport’s runway twenty-three. Sam jogged along the sidewalk outside the arrivals terminal to keep the mammoth 747-8 in view. It retracted its landing gear and began a gentle curve to line it up with the Canada-US border down the center of Lake Erie.

Two taps from a car’s horn brought Sam’s attention back to the traffic streaming past the terminal. A white Ford pickup veered out of the queue and pulled into an open spot a few car-lengths away. The driver stepped out and approached. He was medium height and well built, with a strong, tanned face. He wore a short-sleeved red shirt and loose-fitting blue jeans. Sam identified Daniel from the wide smile and lush, JFK-style hair.

Sam hoisted his duffle bag and started toward him, arm extended. Hello, little brother.

Samuel, Daniel said, clasping Sam’s hand in a firm grip. He placed his left arm around Sam’s back and pulled Sam to him. It’s so good to see you.

And you, Sam said. He tossed his duffel bag into the back and slid into the cab, shoving the seat back to make room for his long legs. An unopened Starbucks sat in the cup holder between the seats. Beside it was an open can of Coke.

Two sugar, extra cream, Daniel said, clicking his seatbelt.

You remembered. Still drinking Coke, I see.

Coffee’s for adults, Daniel said.

Sam chuckled, remembering Daniel’s standard response. Daniel was three years younger, making him almost thirty-six. He chastised himself for missing the milestone. He’d received a card on his thirty-fifth from Daniel and Rachel. From no one else in the family, though.

Flashing a smile, Daniel lifted his Coke and tipped it toward Sam before taking a drink. Sam returned the gesture.

They joined the line of cars leaving the airport then negotiated the connecting ramps onto I-90. The interstate took them north briefly, then performed a ninety-degree and headed away from downtown. Daniel threw some change into the scoop at the Thruway and they settled into the flow.

Sam watched the quick transformation from city to suburbs to ugly water-filled gravel pits. Within fifteen minutes they entered a more attractive region of alternating farmlands and tidy forests.

Daniel’s call yesterday had come as a surprise. They’d been in touch over the years, a letter here, an email there, but only about the passing of a relative or an addition to the family. He knew Daniel now worked at the Mormon Church headquarters in Utah as the Church’s chief historian, and that Rachel and he still had no kids.

How’s Rachel?

Daniel’s face took on a look of pure adoration, as if he were looking at her out of the windshield. She’s great. She’s … wonderful.

Can’t stand her, eh? Sam laughed. It had been Rachel who had written him most often, treating him as if he were still a welcomed member of the Hunter household. He wasn’t certain whether Daniel knew about his wife’s continuing contact, so he had long ago chosen not to mention it to anyone, in case it got back to his father. As far as Sam knew, his father thought the world of Rachel, and he wasn’t going to say anything to jeopardize it.

He looked out the side window, suddenly subdued. His brother was fortunate to have a life partner that he obviously loved deeply, a relationship Sam would probably never have. He didn’t meet many potential spouses in his profession. Not that someone such as him would be a suitable husband or father. Some role model he’d make for a kid.

After a couple of miles of silence went by, Daniel glanced at him. Are you going to ask about the rest of the family?

Nope.

Mom’s doing okay, same as always. Bess is still opinionated. Does a lot of Church work. Heavy into outreach missions overseas.

Sam nodded. From university days on, he and his older sister hadn’t got along very well, holding opposing opinions on most every issue. She was like his father but not as loud and bull-headed. He waited for Daniel to mention Father, but Daniel had evidently decided to leave him out of the picture.

That was appropriate, Sam conceded, because his father acted as if his eldest son didn’t exist. Big deal, Sam had said to himself several times. Who needs a father?

You still a Knicks fan? Daniel asked, breaking another lengthy silence. What do you think of the trade?

For the next few miles, Sam and Daniel discussed the weighty matters of professional basketball, of Salt Lake City’s prospects for landing an NFL franchise, and of the Ogden Raptors’ hot pitcher that the Dodgers were likely to call up after the All Star break.

The truck left the interstate a little way past the turnoff to Rochester. The region, with its hills and hardwoods, rivers and lakes, was the birthplace of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, popularly the Mormons.

The Church he had abandoned.

He half-expected Daniel to cart him to some famous LDS spot like Cumorah Hill, somewhere north of the interstate, but Daniel headed south.

Sam figured that he might as well find out why Daniel had chosen to include him in his mysterious outing. So, he said, what’s the big secret?

Without taking his eyes from the road, Daniel grinned.

Sam prompted. You found something, right? I never heard you so excited when you called yesterday.

Was it that obvious? Daniel slowed to take a turn off the highway onto an unpaved sideroad. Grab the folder behind my seat.

Sam reached for a black vinyl pouch. The letters LDS were imprinted in silver in the bottom corner. Inside were a folded topographic map and a single sheet of paper tucked inside protective plastic film.

That’s a photocopy, Daniel said, glancing toward Sam. A map drawn by the Prophet Joseph Smith.

Really? Sam held it up to catch more of the light coming in the window. Where did you get it?

Sent to me by a descendent of Harris. Said it fell out of an old book in her grandfather’s library.

William Harris? Smith’s publisher?

The same. Look at the bottom. The road we turned off is that diagonal line cutting up from the bottom right. I matched it with the topographic map.

I take it the map points to some historical thing we’re going to recover. Something of Smith’s, right? He lived near here, didn’t he?

Daniel turned to him, with eyes looking like he’d seen The Rapture. You’ll never believe it.

He jammed on the brakes, just before a sign that read Peterson Planted Forest. He started along a trail that ran between rows of pine trees, standing like soldiers in formation. The forest floor was a carpet of brown pine needles. The closed canopy prevented the growth of ground cover, and the lack of lower branches kept sightlines free in all directions.

The forest seems so clean and— Sam grunted as the tire under him plunked down in a water-filled rut. His shoulder slammed the door when Daniel wrenched the wheel to miss a second pothole. He grabbed the handle above the window. Whoa. Slow down.

It’s already midmorning. We’ve got another five miles to go..

Sam looked over his shoulder. I hope the stuff in the back is tied down well. What have you got in the bags?

Diving equipment, Daniel said. We’re going for a swim.

A swim? Sam groaned inside. After his recent ordeal in the Indian Ocean, he had no interest in taking a dip in any body of water, salt or fresh. He took a deep breath. At least no one would be shooting at him.

* * * * *

Apollo Stavros fingered the gun in his holster. Masquerading in the crisp sage pants and light grey shirt of a National Park Service Ranger, he crouched in the woods, some fifty feet from the end of the quarry access road. He looked at his watch and swore. If the target didn’t show he might have to contemplate a change in occupation.

Perhaps a change in identity, too.

After trailing the Mormon to a flooded quarry yesterday, then following him to The SCUBA Shoppe early this morning, Stavros had been confident enough to precede the Mormon to the quarry. His ATV was well concealed and he’d found an excellent observation post close to the little-used access road.

Perspiration plastered his shirt to his back. Although he sat in deep shade, the rising humidity percolated through the leaves. He swatted another mosquito off his forearm. The blotch of blood told him the bug had already feasted, probably on him. The knapsack beside him held six granola bars, three apples, four water bottles, a satellite phone, a flashlight, and binoculars. But no insect repellent. He swore at himself for the oversight.

The sound of an approaching vehicle took his mind off the mosquitoes. Hunter’s pickup truck rattled out of the woods and halted near the quarry’s edge. Through the binoculars, he saw the driver climb out of the cab, slam the door, and walk around to the back. Stavros’ irritation fled; he’d predicted the target’s intentions perfectly.

To his surprise, a second figure entered his field of view. He swore. Hunter had an accomplice. Wasting the two men would be no problem, but prudence told him