managed to catch hold of the framework he'd been leaning against a moment before. For one horrible moment it looked as though he'd be flying down the last five floors worth of shaftway without benefit of the elevator. But with a wrenching twist he managed to throw himself back into the cage of the now stalled car.
Charlie landed on the floor with a brutal thump. He pushed himself up dazedly on hands and knees, then glared over toward the ladder that had been occupied by the towel head who'd just tried to kill him. Of course, the rungs were vacant now. "Sabotage," Lockwood muttered as he raged around the UMC encampment, trying to track down Colonel Jack O'Neil.
He'd repeatedly asked the local military commander to post Marine guards to protect UMC's improvements to the mine. But O'Neil had laughed him off. Now, just as the site manager was about to move in his own security people, the damned Abbadabbas had wrecked the elevator-the one bit of modern technology he'd gotten up and running in their primitive cess pit. Still worse, his construction people told him it would take days before the blasted machine would be running again. They'd have to replace part of the track, importing it from Earth, and then getting it down those Stone Age ladders to the spot where the sabotage had taken place. His supervisors had no clue as to what had happened. The cause of the elevator wreck had been one of those local digging tools, something that by all rights should be in a museum of ancient Egyptian artifacts. The wooden handle of the mattock had been ground to splinters. But the soft metal head of the implement had smeared itself between the elevator car and its tracks. The havoc wreaked by some illiterate digger with dirt under his fingernails was as bad as the most sophisticated hightech saboteur. There was no way to trace the mattock, of course. Thousands of them were scattered across the mine workings.
And asking any of the workers in the area was equally futile. Lockwood moved in the best of his language teachers, the ones who had picked up the most of the local lingo. He might as well have sent in his dullest grease monkeys fresh from Earth. The Abbadabbas not only suffered memory loss, but apparently they'd lost all their language skills as well. Lockwood himself had engaged in a long, sweaty climb down the crudely built ladders to the sabotage site. He'd always considered himself to be in excellent shape, but after climbing five stories down and THREE stories up, Lockwood had been left panting on one of the mine terraces. Vernon Ballard, the new security chief who'd accompanied Lockwood, had been forced to climb to the rest tent and bring back water and salt tablets for the weak and sweating site manager. After Lockwood recovered, he'd climbed back to the surface, rested a bit in his air-conditioned office, then set off to complain to O'Neil. To his fury, the Marine commandant seemed nowhere to be found. Lockwood had covered the Marine encampment and his own establishment. No O'Neil. The UMC man was on the verge of setting off for the city of Nagada when one of his people reported that the colonel had been spotted driving a Humvee into the desert. The mine executive requisitioned one of the all-terrain vehicles and set off in the same direction. Moving through the deep desert was like riding a small boat across the heavy swells of a large ocean. The Humvee topped the crest of one sandy rise to reveal a vista of seemingly identical dunes stretching to the horizon.
"Where the hell could he have gone?" a frustrated Lockwood demanded of his Marine driver. "Uh, sir," the rattled grunt replied, "maybe they've gone to Hogan's Alley." Lockwood rounded on the man. "Take me there.
Now!" Hogan's Alley turned out to be a valley inconspicuously tucked between two dunes. Part of it was a firing range, using one of the sand mountains as a backstop. The rest of the valley had been transformed into an obstacle course. Lockwood stared down from
Charlie landed on the floor with a brutal thump. He pushed himself up dazedly on hands and knees, then glared over toward the ladder that had been occupied by the towel head who'd just tried to kill him. Of course, the rungs were vacant now. "Sabotage," Lockwood muttered as he raged around the UMC encampment, trying to track down Colonel Jack O'Neil.
He'd repeatedly asked the local military commander to post Marine guards to protect UMC's improvements to the mine. But O'Neil had laughed him off. Now, just as the site manager was about to move in his own security people, the damned Abbadabbas had wrecked the elevator-the one bit of modern technology he'd gotten up and running in their primitive cess pit. Still worse, his construction people told him it would take days before the blasted machine would be running again. They'd have to replace part of the track, importing it from Earth, and then getting it down those Stone Age ladders to the spot where the sabotage had taken place. His supervisors had no clue as to what had happened. The cause of the elevator wreck had been one of those local digging tools, something that by all rights should be in a museum of ancient Egyptian artifacts. The wooden handle of the mattock had been ground to splinters. But the soft metal head of the implement had smeared itself between the elevator car and its tracks. The havoc wreaked by some illiterate digger with dirt under his fingernails was as bad as the most sophisticated hightech saboteur. There was no way to trace the mattock, of course. Thousands of them were scattered across the mine workings.
And asking any of the workers in the area was equally futile. Lockwood moved in the best of his language teachers, the ones who had picked up the most of the local lingo. He might as well have sent in his dullest grease monkeys fresh from Earth. The Abbadabbas not only suffered memory loss, but apparently they'd lost all their language skills as well. Lockwood himself had engaged in a long, sweaty climb down the crudely built ladders to the sabotage site. He'd always considered himself to be in excellent shape, but after climbing five stories down and THREE stories up, Lockwood had been left panting on one of the mine terraces. Vernon Ballard, the new security chief who'd accompanied Lockwood, had been forced to climb to the rest tent and bring back water and salt tablets for the weak and sweating site manager. After Lockwood recovered, he'd climbed back to the surface, rested a bit in his air-conditioned office, then set off to complain to O'Neil. To his fury, the Marine commandant seemed nowhere to be found. Lockwood had covered the Marine encampment and his own establishment. No O'Neil. The UMC man was on the verge of setting off for the city of Nagada when one of his people reported that the colonel had been spotted driving a Humvee into the desert. The mine executive requisitioned one of the all-terrain vehicles and set off in the same direction. Moving through the deep desert was like riding a small boat across the heavy swells of a large ocean. The Humvee topped the crest of one sandy rise to reveal a vista of seemingly identical dunes stretching to the horizon.
"Where the hell could he have gone?" a frustrated Lockwood demanded of his Marine driver. "Uh, sir," the rattled grunt replied, "maybe they've gone to Hogan's Alley." Lockwood rounded on the man. "Take me there.
Now!" Hogan's Alley turned out to be a valley inconspicuously tucked between two dunes. Part of it was a firing range, using one of the sand mountains as a backstop. The rest of the valley had been transformed into an obstacle course. Lockwood stared down from
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