She slid over to the physicist. “Dr. Oren, you can’t stay here. Take the transmitter to the truck. Get in the back seat and lay down. You’ll be safer there.”
“But Samson . . .”
“We’ll take care of Samson.”
Dr. Jonny Oren raised his head tentatively. Gunfire rang out, and he buried his face into the cold earth. “I’ll never make it,” he said, lying as flat as a shadow.
“We’ll wait a minute,” said Ava, soothingly. She couldn’t be angry with him. He was a scientist, not a soldier.
“Yes, a minute,” said Oren. “Maybe two.”
Ava scooted over to the transmitter. It was a heavy rectangular object, painted olive drab, the size of an ammo box. Wires sprouted from one end, where it was to be connected to Samson. She waited for a lull in firing, then jumped to her feet. Using both hands, she picked up the transmitter and sprinted to the truck. She opened the rear door and slung the transmitter inside. At that instant, a volley of bullets struck the door, the racket making her ears ring.
Ava threw herself to the ground. She landed on her side, the wind knocked out of her. Maybe she wasn’t the only one with night vision glasses. With her foot, she slammed the door shut. She lay still for a moment, too shaken to move. The fear passed. It took longer for her to catch her breath.
Flipping onto her stomach, she commando crawled back to her colleagues. “How’s it coming?” she asked Benny.
“Almost there.”
Ava inched closer and saw that he’d dug a considerable amount. The hole was as deep as her forearm. With a grunt, Benny thrust the shovel into the earth. It struck something hard and metallic.
“Hit it harder next time,” said Ava. “Then it won’t matter who’s shooting at us.”
“It can’t go off without a code,” said Jonny Oren. “For that, the transmitter needs to be attached.”
“Good to know,” said Ava. “I’ll sleep better at night.”
She reached her hand into the hole and brushed the dirt off a circular metallic plate. There was no digital readout, no buttons, no switches. It didn’t look like much.
Samson.
The name said it all.
“Dig around the sides,” she said to Benny. “I’ll help you lift it.”
Benny slid the shovel into the hole and excavated the soil on all sides of the circular device while Ava scooped out the dirt with both hands.
From across the plain came a crescendo of catcalls, exhortations, and ululations. Kalashnikovs fired lengthy volleys into the sky, the muzzle bursts sparkling like fireworks. Headlights lit up the desert. Motors revved. The Hi-Lux pickups. She knew their sound, and she knew that they carried thirty-caliber machine guns bolted to their flatbeds.
“Hamatzav-Kara,” she muttered. We’re in deep shit.
Ava knew then that their presence—whoevertheywere—was no coincidence. They hadn’t decided to gather at this exact spot at this exact time for the hell of it.
“FYI,” she said to Benny. “The party’s about to get started.”
Benny rammed the shovel into the dirt as if it were a jackhammer. “That’s as good as we’re going to get.”
Ava thrust her arm into the hole. Her fingers touched the device’s rough canvas casing. “Got it,” she said, wrapping her fingers around the handle.
Benny dropped the shovel and fell to the ground beside her. “Got it.”
“Lift on three,” said Ava. “One . . . two . . .”
Ava and Benny struggled to free the device from its decades-old tomb. It was not especially heavy, maybe fifteen pounds, but time and the elements had welded it to the earth. With a final heave, it came free.
It was tall and cylindrical, resembling a sturdy fire extinguisher and wrapped in an olive canvas sleeve with shoulder straps attached. Samson was not meant to be buried but to be carried by infantry into battle. It was more than powerful enough to bring a temple down on the Philistines’ heads. Ten temples. A hundred, even.
The earth beneath their feet began to shake. The sound of approaching vehicles grew louder.
