Arachnosaur. Richard Jeffries

combined with Frankenstein’s castle laboratory. There were lifts on the floor and hooked chains hanging from the ceiling. There were husks and skeletons of every imaginable land and air craft covering almost every inch—save for eating, sleeping, and toiletry areas.

      “What, no videogames?” Key grinned with appreciation.

      “What do I need with any media,” Gonzales said, his arms out, “when I have this?”

      He found Daniels some gym shorts, a pair of sandals they could adjust to his size twelve feet, and an extra-large T-shirt that bore a skull-and-cross-wrench pirate symbol above the legend Stay Well Lubricated.

      He brought out some MREs—self-contained individual field rations, otherwise known as Meal, Ready-to-Eat—and joined them at a small round table by the kitchen. They started breaking down the kit, but the various packets and bags reminded Gonzales too much of what they had just come from.

      “Why did you leave the samples you came so far for?” he asked.

      “No point taking them.” Key laid out the beef stew bag, crackers, cheese spread, and powdered beverage envelope. “I had to see the stuff to try to figure how this is transmitted.” He retrieved the packets of salt, pepper, seasonings, and spoon. “Like I said, definitely not through blood or contact with flesh, so I ruled out the fingernail and the bones.”

      “What the hell were those egg shells?” Daniels asked, already chewing his packet of pork rib.

      “Not egg shells,” Key replied. “Too small. Might be eggs, but none like I’ve ever seen before.”

      “What came out of them? Birds?”

      “Those pea-sized pods are small for birds,” Gonzales chimed in. “Bugs, maybe?”

      Key sat up straighter. “Bugs maybe.” He mused, suddenly distracted.

      Daniels didn’t seem to notice. “Might be a very aggressive form of lyme disease or malaria or something like that,” he suggested, seemingly all but forgetting he had just watched a man messily explode. Then again, it hadn’t been the first time.

      “Hmph.” Gonzales made a chewing noise, deep again in his own thoughts. “If not that, then what?”

      “‘Wind power is very right….’” Key’s tone of voice was both wondrous and self-recriminating.

      Both the sergeant and mechanic turned.

      “Huh?” Daniels said.

      Key suddenly and sharply stood up, scattering his meal all over the floor. “Christ, we have to find the Study Committee, and now.”

      Chapter 8

      “Now that’s more like it,” Daniels said as he took his first look at Muscat, the big and ancient capital of Oman.

      He was wearing a plain white dishdasha—though thankfully not what remained of Ayman’s dishdasha—along with a somewhat sedate turban made of knotted head-cloth, as well as open-toe, open-back sandals. Gonzales had pulled them all out of his workshop’s locker before he changed into his own regional garb.

      When Daniels complained about the simple footwear, Gonzales had explained, “They’re called nahl; easy to remove and they keep anything from getting trapped inside.”

      “‘Nahl’ kidding,” Daniels had drawled. “What could get trapped inside?”

      “Everything from sea snakes to the khanjar daggers of angry husbands,” Gonzales had advised knowingly. “Wear them. You’ll thank me.”

      Key now followed the sergeant out onto dusty tarmac—squinting at the bright blue sky, the sparkling waters of the Oman Gulf, and, in the distance, the copper crags of the Hajar Mountains. It was the tropical opposite of Shabhut; elegance, and even grace, as opposed to oppressive misery.

      He turned away from the clean majesty of even this northeastern edge of the city to see Gonzales emerge from his small private jet in full going-native splendor. The Hispanic Mechanic was wearing an authentic wazar undergarment beneath his more detailed dishdasha, with a long tassel hanging down from the neckline, and subtle, but impressive, embroidery around the wrists, across the shoulder blades, and neckline. On his head was a more ornate massar turban. If only given a cursory glance, he could have passed for a native—at least to Key’s inexperienced eye.

      Key didn’t have to ask exactly where they were. Gonzales had gone into detail during the flight. They were at what remained of the Bayt al Falaj airport, which had gone into minimum service once the grander Muscat International Airport opened in 1973. Gonzales had correctly surmised that Key wanted as low a profile as possible, but also didn’t want to waste eight hours driving there.

      So Gonzales had led them to his prize hobby: a 1991 Cessna Citation light business jet, which he had personally reconditioned after it was simply left behind by an unsatisfied billionaire. That sort of whim had become nearly commonplace in the oil-rich region. Although the Cessna was relatively small, it was certified for operations with a single pilot, and ready to go.

      Key had looked at Gonzales incredulously. “Well, what about—” He extednded his arms to encompass the workshop.

      Gonzales just grinned as Daniels elbowed Key in the side. “He’s a civilian contractor, Joe,” the sergeant informed him. “The Corps needs him more than he needs the Corps.”

      “And I think you need me more than the Corps does at the moment,” Gonzales added.

      Key’s eyebrows had not lowered. “But—”

      “Don’t worry about any future repairs for the base, Corporal,” Gonzales said. “Got some decent assistants. In fact, that drunk who bothered you in the bar was one of them.”

      That had not exactly put Key’s mind at ease. Every few minutes, while Gonzales had filed flight plans and garnered permissions, he offered other reasons why the mechanic should not get involved.

      Finally, Gonzales had simply turned on Key with a solemn expression. “Look,” he said. “I just watched a guy I know go boom. If he went boom, that means anybody can go boom. So, should I just hang around here or should I take you where you need to go to try stop it from happening again?”

      And, according to Gonzales, where they needed to go was Muscat. If they had any chance of cornering anyone from the Study Committee, it would be there.

      Key couldn’t argue with that, so he had finally shut up and let Gonzales get on with it. Two hours later they were slipping into the edge of Muscat as much as it was possible to do in a country with less than two dozen registered private jets. But, in the interim, Key was informed via text that the Marine hazmat team had locked down Ayman’s Emporium, if not what was left of Ayman himself.

      Key was half expecting Logan to rip his ear off, but also half expecting what actually happened—a calm, subsequent, text requesting that he keep the Captain informed. Key looked around at the overgrown field and sandy runway, feeling a little exposed.

      “You ever get the feeling you’re being watched?” he muttered.

      “Don’t worry, Corporal,” Gonzales assured him, misunderstanding the comment. “They know me here. They’ll take good care of CJ.”

      Daniels leaned over and mock-whispered in Key’s ear. “That’s his plane’s name. He names everything.”

      Already several young men in greasy coveralls, who looked like locals, were walking around the aircraft as if they had done it many times before. Gonzales said something to one of them in Arabic, which sent the man scurrying off.

      “So, what now, Corporal?” Gonzales inquired as Key continued to survey the area.

      “We need a base of operations,” Key reminded him.

      “Already done,” Gonzales promised. “I arranged it from the cockpit. It’s my usual hangout. I wasn’t sure you wanted to go there first, though.”

      Key