"The landscape is not the same. There have been great changes in the past almost five hundred years."
He paused and pieced together the three maps, depicting an uninterrupted view of the desert terrain from the upper shore of the Gulf north to the Coachella Valley of California.
"Thousands of years ago the Sea of Cortez used to stretch over the present-day Colorado Desert and Imperial Valley above the Salton Sea. Through the centuries, the Colorado River flooded and carried enormous amounts of silt into the sea, eventually forming a delta and diking in the northern area of the sea. This buildup of silt left behind a large body of water that was later known as Lake Cahuilla, named, I believe, after the Indians who lived on its banks. As you travel around the foothills that rim the basin, you can still see the ancient waterline and find seashells scattered throughout the desert.
"When did it dry up?" asked Shannon.
"Between 1100 and 1200 A.D."
"Then where did the Salton Sea come from?"
"In an attempt to irrigate the desert, a canal was built to carry water from the Colorado River. In 1905, after unseasonably heavy rains and much silting, the river burst the banks of the canal and water poured into the lowest part of the desert's basin. A desperate dam operation stopped the flow, but not before enough water had flowed through to form the Salton Sea, with a surface eighty meters below sea level. Actually, it's a large lake that will eventually go the way of Lake Cahuilla, despite irrigation drainage that has temporarily stabilized its present size."
Gunn produced a bottle of Mexican brandy. "A short intermission for spirits to rejuvenate the bloodstream." Lacking the proper snifter goblets, he poured the brandy into plastic cups. Then he raised his. "A toast to success."
"Hear, hear," said Giordino. "Amazing how a good meal and a little brandy changes one's attitude."
"We're all hoping Dirk has discovered a new solution," said Loren.
"Interesting to see if he makes sense." Shannon made an impatient gesture. "Let's hear where all this is going."
Pitt said nothing but leaned over the maps and drew a circular line through the desert with a red felt-tip pen. "This is approximately where the Gulf extended in the late fourteen hundreds, before the river's silt buildup worked south."
"Less than a kilometer from the present border between the United States and Mexico," observed Rodgers.
"An area now mostly covered by wetlands and mudflats known as the Laguna Salada."
"How does this swamp fit into the picture?" asked Gunn.
Pitt's face glowed like a corporate executive officer about to announce a fat dividend to his stockholders. "The island where the Incas and the Chachapoyas buried Huascar's golden chain is no longer an island."
Then he sat down and sipped his brandy, allowing the revelation to penetrate and blossom.
As if responding to a drill sergeant's command, everyone leaned over the charts and studied the markings Pitt had made indicating the ancient shoreline. Shannon pointed to a small snake Pitt had drawn that coiled around a high rock outcropping halfway between the marsh and the foothills of the Las Tinajas Mountains.
"What does the snake signify?"
"A kind of `X marks the spot,' " answered Pitt.
Gunn closely examined the geological survey map. "You've designated a small mountain that, according to the contour elevations, tops out at slightly less than five hundred meters."
"Or about sixteen hundred feet," Giordino tallied.
"What is it called?" Loren wondered.
"Cerro el Capirote," Pitt answered. "Capirote in English means a tall, pointed ceremonial hat, or what we used to call a dunce cap."
"So you think this high pinnacle in the middle of nowhere is our treasure site?" Rodgers asked Pitt.
"If you study the maps closely, you'll find several other small mounts with sharp summits rising from the desert floor beside the swamp. Any one of them matches the general description. But I'm laying my money on Cerro el Capirote."
"What brings you to such an uncompromising decision?" Shannon queried.
"I put myself in the Incas' shoes, or sandals as it were, and selected the best spot to hide what was at the time the world's greatest treasure. If I were General Naymlap, I'd look for the most imposing island at the upper end of a sea as far away from the hated Spanish conquerors as I could find. Cerro el Capirote was about as far as he could go in the early fifteen hundreds, and its height makes it the most imposing."
The mood on the passenger deck of the ferry was definitely on the upswing. New hope had been injected into a project that had come within a hair of being written off as a failure. Pitt's unshakable confidence had infected everyone. Even Shannon was belting down the brandy and grinning like a Dodge City saloon hostess. It was as if all doubt had been thrown overboard. Suddenly, they all took finding the demon perched on the peak of Cerro el Capirote for granted.
If they had the slightest hint that Pitt had reservations, the party would have died a quick death. He felt secure in his conclusions, but he was too pragmatic not to harbor a few small doubts.
And then there was the dark side of the coin. He and Giordino had not mentioned that they had identified Doc Miller's killer as one of the other searchers. They both quietly realized that the Zolars or the Solpemachaco, whatever devious name they went under in this part of the world, were not aware that the treasure was in Pitt's sights.
Pitt began to picture Tupac Amaru in his mind, the cold, lifeless eyes, and he knew the hunt was about to become ugly and downright dirty.
They sailed the Alhambra north of Punta San Felipe and heaved to when her paddlewheels churned up a wake of red silt. A few kilometers ahead, the mouth of the Colorado River, wide and shallow, gaped on the horizon. Spread on either side of the murky, salt-laden water were barren mudflats, totally devoid of vegetation. Few planets in the universe could have looked as wretched and dead.
Pitt gazed at the grim landscape through the windscreen of the helicopter as he adjusted his safety harness. Shannon was strapped in the copilot's seat and Giordino and Rodgers sat in the rear passenger section of the cabin. He waved at Gunn, who replied with a V for victory sign, and Loren, who appropriately blew him a kiss.
His hands danced over the cyclic and collective pitch sticks as the rotors turned, gathering speed until the whole fuselage shuddered. And then the Alhambra was falling away, and he slipped the helicopter sideways across the water like a leaf blown by the wind. Once safely free of the ferry, he gently slipped the cyclic forward and the aircraft began a diagonal climb on a northerly course. At 500 meters (1640
feet) Pitt adjusted the controls and straightened out in level flight.
He flew above the drab waters of the upper Gulf for ten minutes before crossing into the marshlands of the Laguna Salada. A vast section of the flats was flooded from recent rains, and the dead limbs of mesquite rose above the heavily salted water like skeletal arms reaching for salvation.
The giant slough was soon left behind as Pitt banked the helicopter across the sand dunes that marched from the mountains to the edge of the Laguna Salada. Now the landscape took on the characteristics of a faded brown moon, more substance than color. The uneven, rocky terrain looked fearsome. Beautiful to the eye but deadly to the body that struggled to survive its horror during the blazing heat of summer.
"There's a blacktop road," announced Shannon, motioning downward.
"Highway Five," said Pitt. "It runs from San Felipe to Mexicali."
"Is this part of the Colorado Desert?" asked Rodgers.
"The desert north of the border is called that because of the Colorado River. In fact this is all part of the Sonoran Desert."
"Not very hospitable country. I wouldn't want to walk through it."
"Those who are intolerant of the desert die in it," said Pitt thoughtfully. "Those who respect it find it a compelling place to live."
"People actually live down there?" Shannon asked in surprise.
"Mostly Indians," repl
ied Pitt. "The Sonoran Desert is perhaps the most beautiful of all the world's deserts, even though the citizens of central Mexico think of it as their Ozarks."
Giordino leaned out a side window for a better view and peered into the distance through the trusty binoculars. He patted Pitt on the shoulder. "Your hot spot is coming up off to, port."
Pitt nodded, made a slight course change and peered at a solitary mountain rising from the desert floor directly ahead. Cerro el Capirote was aptly named. Though not exactly conical in shape, there was a slight resemblance to a dunce cap with the tip flattened.
"I think I can make out an animal-like sculpture on the summit," observed Giordino.
"I'll descend and hover over it," Pitt acknowledged.
He cut his airspeed, dropped, and swung around the top of the mountain. He approached and circled cautiously, on the watch for sudden downdrafts. Then he hovered the helicopter almost nose-to-nose with the grotesque stone effigy. Mouth agape, it seemed to stare back with the truculent expression of a hungry junkyard dog.
"Step right up, folks," hawked Pitt as if he were a carnival barker, "and view the astounding demon of the underworld who shuffles cards with his nose and deals 'em with his toes."
"It exists," cried Shannon, flushed with excitement, as they all were. "It truly exists."
"Looks like a timeworn gargoyle," said Giordino, successfully controlling his emotions.
"You've got to land," demanded Rodgers. "We must get a closer look."
"Too many high rocks around the sculpture," said Pitt. "I have to find a flat spot to set down."
"There's a small clearing free of boulders about forty meters beyond the demon," Giordino said, pointing through the windscreen over Pitt's shoulder.
Pitt nodded and banked around the towering rock carving so he could make his approach into the wind blowing across the mountain from the west. He reduced speed, eased back the cyclic stick. The turquoise helicopter hovered a moment, flared out, and then settled onto the only open space on the stone summit of Cerro el Capirote.
Giordino was first out, carrying tiedown lines that he attached to the helicopter and wrapped around rock outcroppings. When he completed the operation, he moved in front of the cockpit and drew his hand across his throat. Pitt shut off the engine and the rotor blades wound down.
Rodgers jumped down and offered a hand to Shannon. She hit the ground and took off at a run over the uneven terrain toward the stone effigy. Pitt stepped from the helicopter last, but did not follow the others. He casually raised the binoculars and scanned the sky in the direction of the faint sound of an aircraft engine. The seaplane was only a silver speck against a dome of blue. The pilot had maintained an altitude of 2000 meters (6500 feet) in an attempt to remain unseen. But Pitt was not fooled. His intuition told him he was being tailed the instant he lifted off from the Alhambra. Spotting the enemy only confirmed his suspicions.
Before he joined the others already gathered around the stone beast, he took a moment and stepped to the edge of the craggy wall and stared down, thankful that he did not have to make the ascent. The unobstructed panorama of the desert was breathtaking. The October sun tinted the rocks and sand in vivid colors that turned drab during the hot summer. The waters of the Gulf sparkled to the south and the mountain ranges on both sides of the marshlands of the Laguna Salada rose majestically through a slight haze.
Satisfaction swelled within him. He had made a good call. The ancients had indeed selected an imposing spot to hide their treasure.
When he finally approached the huge stone beast, Shannon was making detailed measurements of the jaguar body while Rodgers busied himself shooting roll after roll of photos. Giordino appeared intent on searching around the pedestal for a trace of the entrance to the passageway leading down into the mountain.
"Does he have the proper pedigree?" Pitt asked.
"Definitely Chachapoyan influence," Shannon said, her face flushed with fervor. "An extraordinary example of their art." She stood back as if admiring a painting hanging in a gallery. "See how the motifs on the scales are exactingly duplicated. They're a perfect match for those on the sculpted beasts in the Pueblo de los Muertos."
"The technique is the same?"
"Almost identical."
"Then perhaps the same sculptor had a hand in carving this one."
"It's possible." Shannon raised her hand as high as she could reach and stroked the lower part of the serpent's scaled neck. "It wasn't uncommon for the Incas to recruit Chachapoyan stone carvers."
"The ancients must have had a strange sense of humor to create a god whose looks could sour milk."
"The legend is vague but it contends that a condor laid an egg that was eaten and vomited by a jaguar.
A snake was hatched from the regurgitated egg and slithered into the sea where it grew fish scales. The rest of the mythological account says that because the beast was so ugly and shunned by the other gods who thrived in the sun, it lived underground where it eventually became the guardian of the dead."
"The original ugly duckling fairy tale."
"He's hideous," Shannon said solemnly, "and yet I can't help feeling a deep sadness for him. I don't know if I can explain it properly, but the stone seems to have a life of its own."
"I understand. I sense something more than cold stone too." Pitt stared down at one of the wings that had dropped off the body and shattered into several pieces. "Poor old guy. He looks like he's fallen on hard times."
Shannon nodded sadly at the graffiti and the gouges from bullet holes. "The pity is that local archaeologists never recognized the beast for what it is, a remarkable piece of artwork by two cultures that thrived thousands of kilometers from here--"
Pitt interrupted her by abruptly raising a hand for silence. "You hear something, a strange sound like someone crying?"
She cocked an ear and listened, then shook her head. "I only hear the shutter and automatic winding mechanism on Miles's camera."
The eerie sound Pitt thought he heard was gone. He grinned. "Probably the wind."
"Or those the Demonio del Muertos is guarding."
"I thought he guaranteed they rest in eternal peace."
Shannon smiled. "We know very little about Inca and Chachapoyan religious rites. Our stone friend here may not have been as benevolent as we assume."
Pitt left Shannon and Miles to their work and walked over to Giordino, who was tapping the rock around the beast's pedestal with a miner's pick. "See any hint of a passage?" Pitt asked.
"Not unless the ancients discovered a method for fusing rock," answered Giordino. "This big gargoyle is carved from an immense slab of solid granite that forms the core of the mountain. I can't find a telltale crack anywhere around the statue's base. If there's a passage, it has to be somewhere else on the mountain."
Pitt tilted his head, listening. "There it is again."
"You mean that banshee wail?"
"You heard it?" Pitt asked in surprise.
"I figured it was just wind whistling through the rocks."
"There isn't a whisper of wind."
A curious look crossed Giordino's face as he wetted one index finger with his tongue and tested the air. "You're right. Nary a stir."
"It's not a steady sound," said Pitt. "I only notice it at intervals."
"I picked up on that too. It comes like a puff of breath for about ten seconds and then fades for nearly a minute."
Pitt nodded happily. "Could it be we're describing a vent to a cavern?"
"Let's see if we can find it," Giordino suggested eagerly.
"Better it come to us." Pitt found a rock that seemed molded to his buttocks and settled in. He leisurely wiped a smudge from one lens of his sunglasses, dabbed his brow with a bandanna that hung from his pocket, then cupped his ears and began turning his head like a radar antenna.
Like clockwork, the strange wail came and went. Pitt waited until he heard three sequences. Then he motioned for Giordino to move along the north side of the peak
. No reply was necessary, no words passed between them. They had been close friends since they were children and had maintained close contact during their years together in the Air Force. When Pitt joined NUMA at Admiral Sandecker's request twelve years ago, Giordino went with him. Over time they learned to respond to each other without needless talk.
Giordino moved down a steep slope for about 20 meters (65 feet) before stopping. He paused and listened while awaiting Pitt's next gesture. The dismal wail came stronger to him than it did to Pitt. But he knew that the sound reverberated off the boulders and was distorted. He didn't hesitate when Pitt motioned him away from where it sounded loudest and pointed to a spot where the side of the peak suddenly dropped off in a narrow chute 10 meters (33 feet) deep.
While Giordino was lying on his stomach surveying a way down to the bottom of the chute, Pitt came over, crouched beside him, and held out a hand, palm down.
The wail came again and Pitt nodded, his lips parting in a tight smile. "I can feel a draft. Something deep inside the mountain is causing air to be expelled from a vent."
"I'll get the rope and flashlight from the chopper," said Giordino, rising to his feet and trotting toward the aircraft. In two minutes he was back with Shannon and Miles.
Her eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation. "Al says you found a way inside the mountain."
Pitt nodded. "We'll know shortly."
Giordino tied one end of a nylon line around a large rock. "Who gets the honor?"
"I'll toss you for it," said Pitt.
"Heads."
Pitt flipped a quarter and watched as it clinked and spun to a stop on a small, flat surface between two massive boulders. "Tails, you lose."
Giordino shrugged without complaint, knotted a loop and passed it over and then under Pitt's shoulders. "Never mind bedazzling me with mountain climbing tricks. I'll let you down, and I'll pull you up."