Sacred Stone (The Oregon Files, Band 2) - Softcover

Buch 2 von 19: The Oregon Files

Cussler, Clive; Dirgo, Craig

 
9780425201022: Sacred Stone (The Oregon Files, Band 2)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0425201023 ISBN 13: 9780425201022
Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2008

Inhaltsangabe

Juan Cabrillo and his CIA-backed Oregon crew must beat opposing factions to a discovery that could prevent World War III in this novel in the #1 New York Times-bestselling series.

In the remote wastes of Greenland, a young scientist has unearthed an artifact hidden in a cave for a millennium: a 50,000 year-old radioactive meteorite known as the Sacred Stone. But the astounding find places him in the crosshairs of two opposing groups who seek the stone for themselves.
 
One is a group of Muslim extremists who have stolen a nuclear device. With the power of the meteorite, they could vaporize any city in the west. The other group is led by a megalomaniacal industrialist who seeks to carry out the utter annihilation of Islam itself.
 
Caught between two militant factions bent on wholesale slaughter, Juan Cabrillo and his crew must fight to protect the scientist and the Sacred Stone—and prevent the outbreak of World War III...

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Clive Cussler is the author of more than fifty books in five bestselling series, including Dirk Pitt, NUMA Files, Oregon Files, Isaac Bell, and Fargo. His life nearly parallels that of his hero Dirk Pitt. Whether searching for lost aircraft or leading expeditions to find famous shipwrecks, he and his NUMA crew of volunteers have discovered more than seventy-five lost ships of historic significance, including the long-lost Confederate submarine Hunley, which was raised in 2000 with much press publicity. Like Pitt, Cussler collects classic automobiles. His collection features more than eighty examples of custom coachwork. Cussler lives in Arizona and Colorado.

Craig Dirgo has been special projects manager on many NUMA expeditions since 1987 and now serves as a trustee. He is the coauthor of The Sea Hunters and The Sea Hunters II.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One

LIEUTENANT CHRIS HUNT rarely talked about his past, but the men he served with had gathered a few clues from his demeanor. The first was that Hunt had not grown up in some backwoods hillbilly haven and used the army to see the world. He was from Southern California. And, if pressed, Hunt would volunteer he was raised in the Los Angeles area, not wanting to disclose that he grew up in Beverly Hills. The second thing the men noticed was that Hunt was a natural leader-he was neither patronizing nor put on an air of superiority, but neither did he try to hide the fact that he was competent and smart.

The third thing the men found out today.

A chill wind was blowing down from the mountains into the Afghanistan valley where the platoon under Hunt's command was breaking camp. Hunt and three other soldiers were wrestling with a tent they were folding for storage. While the men were bringing the ends together longways, Sergeant Tom Agnes decided to ask about the rumor he had heard. Hunt handed him the side of the tent so Agnes could fold it into halves.

"Sir," Agnes said, "rumor has it you graduated from Yale University-that true?"

All the men were wearing tinted ski goggles but Agnes was close enough to see Hunt's eyes. A flicker of surprise, followed by resignation, flashed quickly. Then Hunt smiled.

"Ah," he said quietly, "you've found out my terrible secret."

Agnes nodded and folded the tent in half. "Not exactly a hotbed for military recruiting."

"George Bush went there," Hunt said. "He was a navy pilot."

"I thought he was in the National Guard," Specialist Jesus Herrara, who was taking the tent from Agnes, said.

"George Bush Senior," Hunt said. "Our president also graduated from Yale, and yes, he was a National Guard jet pilot."

"Yale," Agnes said. "If you don't mind me asking, how did you end up here?"

Hunt brushed some snow from his gloves. "I volunteered," he said, "just like you."

Agnes nodded.

"Now let's finish breaking down this camp," Hunt said, pointing to the mountain nearby, "and head up there and find that bastard who attacked the United States."

"Yes, sir," the men said in unison.

Ten minutes later, with fifty-pound packs on their backs, they started up the mountain.



IN A TOWN where beautiful women abound, at age forty-nine Michelle Hunt still caused men to turn their heads. Tall, with hazel hair and bluegreen eyes, she was blessed with a figure that required neither constant dieting nor endless exercise to appear trim. Her lips were full and her teeth straight, but it was her doelike eyes and flawless skin that gave the strongest visual impression. And while she was a beautiful woman, that was as common in Southern California as sunshine and earthquakes.

What drew people closer to Michelle was something that cannot be created by a surgeon's knife, honed through dress or manicure, or developed through ambition or change. Michelle had that thing that made both men and women like her and want to be around her-she was happy, content and positive. Michelle Hunt was herself. And people flocked to her like bees to a flower in bloom.

"Sam," she said to the painter who had just finished the walls in her art gallery, "you do such nice work."

Sam was thirty-eight years old and he blushed.

"Only my best for you, Ms. Hunt," he said.

Sam had painted her gallery when it had opened five years before, her Beverly Hills house, her condo in Lake Tahoe and now this remodel. And every time she made him feel appreciated and talented.

"You want a bottle of water or a Coke or something?" she asked.

"I'm okay, thanks."

Just then an assistant called from the front of the gallery that she had a telephone call, and she smiled, waved and began to walk away.

"That's a lady," Sam said under his breath, "a lady."

Walking to the front of the gallery, where her desk faced out onto Rodeo Drive, Michelle noticed that one of the artists she represented was coming through the front door. Here her amiability had also paid off in spades-artists are a fickle and temperamental lot, but Michelle's artists adored her and rarely changed galleries. That and the fact that she had started her business fully funded had contributed greatly to her years of success.

"I knew today was going to be good," she said to the bearded man. "I just didn't know it would be because my favorite artist would be paying me a visit."

The man smiled.

"Just let me take this telephone call," she said, "and we'll talk."

Her aide corralled the artist toward an area with couches and a wet bar off to one side. As Michelle slid into her desk chair and reached for the telephone, the aide took the artist's drink order and a few seconds later began packing ground espresso into the machine to draw him a cappuccino.

"Michelle Hunt."

"It's me," a gravelly voice said.

The voice was one that needed no introduction. He had swept her off her feet when she was a young woman of twenty-one, freshly arrived from Minnesota, seeking a new life of fun and sun in 1980s Southern California. After an on-again, off-again relationship, necessitated both by his inability to be bound to a relationship, as well as his frequent absences for business, she had borne his son at age twenty-four. And though his name never appeared on the birth certificate-nor had Michelle and he actually lived together before or since-the pair had remained close. At least as close as the man allowed anyone ever to come.

"How are you?" she asked.

"I've been okay."

"Where are you?"

It was the standard question she asked him to break the ice. Over the years the answers had ranged from Osaka to Peru to Paris to Tahiti.

"Hang on," the man said easily. He stared at a moving map on a forward wall near the cockpit of his jet. "Six hundred and eighty-seven miles from Honolulu on the way to Vancouver, British Columbia."

"Going skiing?" she asked. The sport was something they had enjoyed together.

"Building a skyscraper," he answered.

"You're always up to something."

"True," he noted. "Michelle, I called because I heard our boy has been sent to Afghanistan," he said quietly.

Michelle had been unaware-the deployment was still secret and Chris had not been able to disclose his destination when he'd been dispatched.

"Oh my," she blurted, "that's not good."

"That's what I thought you'd say."

"How'd you find out?" Michelle asked. "I'm always amazed by your ability to ferret out information."

"It's not magic," the man said. "I have so many senators and other politicians in my pocket I've had to buy larger pants."

"Any word on how it's going?"

"I guess the mission is proving harder than the president envisioned," he said. "Chris is apparently leading a hunter-killer squad to locate the bad guys. Limited contact so far-but my sources claim it is cold and dirty work. If he doesn't contact you for a while, don't be surprised."

"I'm afraid for him," Michelle said slowly.

"Do you want me to put in a fix?" the man asked. "Have him pulled out and sent stateside?"

"I thought he made you agree never to do that."

"He did," the man admitted.

"Then don't."

"I'll call you when I know more."

"Are you going to be down this way soon?" Michelle asked.

"I'll call you if I am," the man said. "Now I'd better go-I'm starting to get static on the satellite line. Must be sunspots."...

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Verlag
G.P. Putnam's Sons
Erscheinungsdatum
2008
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0425201023
ISBN 13 
9780425201022
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
528
Kontakt zum Hersteller
G.P. Putnam's Sons
https://www.penguin.com/putnam/

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