Inca Gold

  To Sandecker, the audacious plan to come in through the back door of Cerro el Capirote in a wild attempt to save Loren Smith and Rudi Gunn was nothing less than suicidal. He knew the reasons Pitt had for risking his life, rescuing a loved one and a close friend from death, evening the score with a pair of murderers, and snatching a wondrous treasure from the hands of thieves. Those were grounds for justification of other men. Not Pitt. His motivation went much deeper. To challenge the unknown, laugh at the devil, and dare the odds. Those were his stimulants.

  As for Giordino, Pitt's friend since childhood, Sandecker never doubted for an instant the rugged Italian would follow Pitt into a molten sea of lava.

  Sandecker could have stopped them. But he hadn't built what was thought of by many as the finest, most productive, and budget efficient agency in the government without taking his fair share of risky gambles. His fondness for marching out of step with official Washington made him the object of respect as well as envy. The other directors of national bureaus would never consider hands-on control of a hazardous project in the field that might run the risk of censure from Congress and force resignation by presidential order. Sandecker's only regret was that this was one adventure he couldn't lead himself.

  He paused after carrying a load of dive gear from the old Chevy down the tubular bore and looked at Peter Duncan, who sat beside the sinkhole, busily overlaying a transparency of a topographical map onto a hydrographic survey of known underground water systems.

  The two charts were enlarged to the same scale, enabling Duncan to trace the approximate course of the subterranean river. Around him, the others were setting out the dive gear and float equipment. "As the crow flies," Duncan said to no one specifically, "the distance between Satan's Sinkhole and Cerro el Capirote works out to roughly thirty kilometers."

  Sandecker looked down into the water of the sinkhole. "What quirk of nature formed the river channel?"

  "About sixty million years ago," answered Duncan, "a shift in the earth caused a fault in the limestone, allowing water to seep in and carve out a series of connecting caverns."

  The admiral turned to Pitt. "How long do you think it will take you to get there?"

  "Running with a current of nine knots," said Pitt, "we should make the treasure cavern in three hours."

  Duncan looked doubtful. "I've never seen a river that didn't meander. If I were you I'd add another two hours to my estimated time of arrival."

  "The Wallowing Windbag will make up the time," Giordino said confidently as he stripped off his clothes.

  "Only if you have clear sailing all the way. You're entering the unknown. There is no second-guessing the difficulties you might encounter. Submerged passages extending ten kilometers or more, cascades that fall the height of a ten-story building, or unnavigable rapids through rocks. White-water rafters have a saying-- if there is a rock, you'll strike it. If there is an eddy, you'll get caught in it."

  "Anything else?" Giordino grinned, unshaken by Duncan's dire forecast. "Like vampires or gluttonous monsters with six jaws of barracuda teeth lurking in the dark to have us for lunch?"

  "I'm only trying to prepare you for the unexpected," Duncan said. "The best theory I can offer that might give you a small sense of security is that I believe the main section of the river system flows through a fault in the earth. If I'm right, the channel will travel in an erratic path but with a reasonably level depth."

  Pitt patted him on the shoulder. "We understand and we're grateful. But at this stage, all Al and I can do is hope for the best, expect the worst, and settle for anything in between."

  "When you swam out of the sinkhole's feeder stream into the river," Sandecker asked Duncan, "was there an air pocket?"

  "Yes, the rock ceiling rose a good ten meters above the surface of the river."

  "How far did it extend?"

  "We were hanging onto the fixed guideline for dear life against the current and only got a brief look. A quick sweep of my light failed to reveal the end of the gallery."

  "With luck, they'll have an air passage the entire trip."

  "A lot of luck," said Duncan skeptically, his eyes still drawn to the chart overlays. "As underground rivers go, this one is enormous. In sheer length, it must be the longest unexplored subterranean water course through a field of karst."

  Giordino hesitated in strapping on a small console containing pressure gauges, a compass, and a depth meter to his arm. "What do you mean by karst?"

  "Karst is the term for a limestone belt that is penetrated by a system of streams, passages, and caverns."

  "It makes one wonder how many other unknown rivers are flowing under the earth," said Pitt.

  "Leigh Hunt and his river canyon of gold, another source of jokes by California and Nevada state hydrologists, now bear heavy investigation," admitted Duncan. "Because of what you discovered here, I'll guarantee that closed minds will take a second look."

  "Maybe I can do my bit for the cause," said Pitt, holding up a small waterproof computer before strapping it to his forearm. "I'll try to program a survey, and plot data on the river's course as we go."

  "I'll be grateful for all the scientific data you can bring back," acknowledged Duncan. "Finding a golden treasure under Cerro el Capirote may fire the imagination, but in reality it's incidental to the discovery of a water source that can turn millions of acres of desert into productive farm and ranch land."

  "Perhaps the gold can fund the pumping systems and pipelines for such a project," said Pitt.

  "Certainly a dream to consider," added Sandecker.

  Giordino held up an underwater camera. "I'll bring back some pictures for you."

  "Thank you," said Duncan gratefully. "I'd also appreciate another favor."

  Pitt smiled. "Name it."

  He handed Pitt a plastic packet in the shape of a basketball but half the size. "A dye tracer called Fluorescein Yellow with Optical Brightener. I'll buy you the best Mexican dinner in the Southwest if you'll throw it into the river when you reach the treasure chamber. That's all. As it floats along the river the container will automatically release the dye over regular intervals."

  "You want to record where the river outlet emerges into the Gulf."

  Duncan nodded. "That will give us an important hydrologic link."

  He was also going to ask if Pitt and Giordino might take water samples, but thought better of it. He had already pushed them as far as he dared. If they were successful in navigating the river as far as the hollow interior of Cerro el Capirote, then he and his fellow scientists could mount subsequent scientific expeditions based on the data acquired by Pitt and Giordino.

  Over the next ten minutes, Pitt and Giordino geared up and went over the plans for their journey. They had made countless dives together under a hundred different water and weather conditions, but none of this distance through the depths of the earth. Like doctors discussing a delicate brain operation, no detail was left to chance. Their survival depended on it.

  Communication signals were agreed upon, buddy breathing strategies in case of air loss, the drill for inflating and deflating the Wallowing Windbag, who was in control of what equipment-- all procedures were deliberated and jointly approved.

  "I see you're not wearing a pressurized dry suit," observed Sandecker as Pitt pulled on his wet suit.

  "The water temperature is a few degrees on the cool side, but warm enough so we don't have to worry about hypothermia. A wet suit gives us more freedom of movement than a dry suit that is pressurized by air tanks. This will prove a dire necessity if we find ourselves struggling in the water to right the Wallowing Windbag after it is flipped over by raging rapids."

  Instead of the standard backpack, Pitt attached his air tanks to a harness around his hips for easier access through narrow passages. He was also festooned with breathing regulators, air lines leading to dual valve manifolds, pressure gauges, and a small backup bottle filled with pure oxygen for decompression. Then came weight belts and buoyancy compensators.


  "No mixed gas?" queried Sandecker.

  "We'll breathe air," Pitt replied as he checked his regulators.

  "What about the danger of nitrogen narcosis?"

  "Once we're clear of the bottom of the sinkhole and the lower part of the feeder stream before it upslopes to the river, we'll avoid any further deep diving like the plague."

  "Just see that you stay well above the threshold," Sandecker warned him, "and don't go below thirty meters. And once you're afloat keep a sharp eye for submerged boulders."

  Those were the words the admiral spoke. What he didn't say was, "If something goes wrong and you need immediate help, you might as well be on the third ring of Saturn." In other words, there could be no rescue or evacuation.

  Pitt and Giordino made a final predive check of each other's equipment by the side of the pool and tested their ` quick-release buckles and snaps to ensure their smooth removal in an emergency. Instead of divers' hoods, they strapped construction workers' hardhats to their heads with dual-sealed miners'

  lamps on the front. Then they poised on the edge of the sinkhole and slipped into the water.

  Sandecker and Duncan hoisted a long, pressure-sealed aluminum canister and struggled to lower one end into the sinkhole. The canister, measuring one meter in width by four in length, was articulated in the middle for easier maneuvering through tight spaces. Heavy and cumbersome on land from the lead ballast required to give it neutral buoyancy, it was easily moved by a diver underwater.

  Giordino bit on his mouthpiece, adjusted his mask, and took hold of a handgrip on the forward end of the canister. He threw a final wave as he and the canister slowly sank together below the water surface.

  Pitt looked up from the water and shook hands with Duncan.

  "Whatever you do," Duncan warned him, "mind you don't let the current sweep you past the treasure chamber. From that position to where the river emerges into the Gulf has to be over a hundred kilometers."

  "Don't worry, we won't spend any more time down there than we have to."

  "May God dive with you," said Duncan.

  "All heavenly company will be warmly welcomed," said Pitt sincerely. Then he gripped Sandecker's hand. "Keep a tequila on ice for me, Admiral."

  "I wish there was another way into the mountain."

  Pitt shook his head. "It can only be done with a diveraft operation."

  "Bring Loren and Rudi back," replied Sandecker, fighting off a surge of emotion.

  "You'll see them soon," Pitt promised.

  And then he was gone.

  The voice of his radio operator roused Captain Juan Diego from his reverie, and he turned from gazing out his command tent at the cone-shaped mountain. There was an indescribable ugliness about Cerro el Capirote and the bleak desert that surrounded it, he thought. This was a wasteland compared to the beauty of his native state of Durango.

  "Yes, what is it, Sergeant?"

  The radio operator had his back to him and Diego couldn't see the puzzled look on the soldier's face.

  "I called the security posts for their hourly status reports and received no response from Posts Four and Six."

  Diego sighed. He didn't need unexpected predicaments. Colonel Campos had commanded him to set up a security perimeter around the mountain and he had followed orders. No reason was given, none was asked. Consumed with curiosity, Diego could only watch the helicopters arrive and depart and wonder what was going on up there.

  "Contact Corporal Francisco at Post Five and have him send a man to check Four and Six." Diego sat down at his field desk and duly noted the lack of response in his daily report as a probable breakdown in communications equipment. The possibility there was a real problem never entered his mind.

  "I can't raise Francisco at Post Five either," the radioman informed him.

  Diego finally turned. "Are you certain your equipment is working properly?"

  "Yes, Sir. The transmitter is sending and receiving perfectly."

  "Try Post One."

  The radioman adjusted his headphones and signaled the post. A few moments later, he turned and shrugged.

  "I'm sorry, Captain, Post One is silent too."

  "I'll see to this myself," Diego said irritably. He picked up a portable radio and headed from the tent toward his command vehicle. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and stared dumbly.

  The army command vehicle was sitting with the left front end jacked up, the wheel and the spare tire both nowhere to be seen. "What in hell is going on?" he muttered to himself. Is this some sort of prank, he wondered, or could Colonel Campos be testing him?

  He spun around on his heel and started for the tent but took only two steps. As if conjured up out of nothingness by a spell, three men blocked his way. All held rifles pointed at his chest. The first question that ran through his mind was why were Indians, dressed as if they were on a cattle drive, sabotaging his equipment?

  "This is a military zone," he blurted. "You are not permitted here."

  "Do as you're told, soldier boy," said Billy Yuma, "and none of your men will get hurt."

  Diego suddenly guessed what had happened to his security posts. And yet he was confused. There was no way a few Indians could capture forty trained soldiers without firing a shot. He addressed his words to Yuma, whom he took to be the leader.

  "Drop your weapons before my men arrive or you will be placed under military arrest."

  "I'm sorry to inform you, soldier boy," Yuma said, taking delight in intimidating the officer in his neatly pressed field uniform and brightly shined combat boots, "but your entire force has been disarmed and is now under guard."

  "Impossible!" snapped Diego haughtily. "No mob of sand rats can stand up against trained troops."

  Yuma shrugged indifferently and turned to one of the men beside him. "Fix the radio inside the tent so it won't work."

  "You're crazy. You can't destroy government property."

  "You have trespassed on our land," said Yuma in a low voice. "You have no authority here."

  "I order you to put those guns down," commanded Diego, reaching for his sidearm.

  Yuma stepped forward, his weathered face expressionless, and rammed the muzzle of his old Winchester rifle deep into Captain Diego's stomach. "Do not resist us. If I pull the trigger, your body will silence the gunfire to those on the mountain."

  The sudden, jolting pain convinced Diego these men were not playing games. They knew the desert and could move through the terrain like ghosts. His orders were to prevent possible encroachment by wandering hunters or prospectors. Nothing was mentioned about an armed force of local Indians who lay in ambush. Slowly, he handed over his automatic pistol to one of Yuma's men, who stuffed the barrel down the waist of his denim pants.

  "Your radio too, please."

  Diego reluctantly passed over the radio. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Don't you know you are breaking the law?"

  "If you soldier boys are working with the men who are defiling our sacred mountain, it is you who are breaking the law, our law. Now, no more talk. You will come with us."

  In silence, Captain Diego and his radioman were escorted half a kilometer (a third of a mile) to a large overhanging rock protruding from the mountain. There, out of sight of anyone on the peak, Diego found his entire company of men sitting nervously in a tight group while several Indians covered them with their own weapons.

  They scrambled to their feet and came to attention, their faces reflecting relief at seeing their commanding officer. Two lieutenants and a sergeant came up and saluted.

  "Is there no one who escaped?" asked Diego.

  One of the lieutenants shook his head. "No, sir. They were on us before we could resist."

  Diego looked around at the Indians guarding his men. Including Yuma, he counted only sixteen. "Is this all of you?" he asked unbelievingly.

  Yuma nodded. "We did not need more."

  "What are you going to do with us?"

  "Nothing, soldier boy. My neighbors and I have
been careful not to harm anyone. You and your men will enjoy a nice siesta for a few hours, and then you'll be free to leave our land."

  "And if we attempt to escape?"

  Yuma shrugged indifferently. "Then you will be shot. Something you should think about, since my people can hit a running rabbit at fifty meters."

  Yuma had said all he had to say. He turned his back on Captain Diego and began climbing an almost unrecognizable trail between a fissure on the south wall of the mountain. No words were spoken between the Montolos. As if on silent command, ten men followed Billy Yuma while five remained behind to guard the prisoners.

  The ascent went faster than the last time. He profited from his mistakes and ignored the wrong turns he had taken that curved into blind chutes. He remembered the good handholds and avoided the ones that were badly eroded. But it was still tough going on a trail no self-respecting pack mule would be caught dead on.

  He would have preferred more men to support his assault, but the ten men struggling behind him were the only ones who were not afraid of the mountain. Or that was what they claimed. Yuma was not blind to the apprehension in their eyes.

  After he reached a flat ledge, he stopped to catch his breath. His heart was beginning to pound, but his body was tensed with the nervous energy of a racehorse ready to burst from the gate. He pulled an old pocket watch from his pants pocket and checked the time. He nodded to himself in satisfaction and held the watch face for the others to see. They were twenty minutes ahead of schedule.

  High above, on the mountain's summit, the helicopters hovered like bees around a hive. They were loaded with I as much of the treasure as they could lift before struggling into the sky and setting a course for the airstrip in the Altar Desert.

  Colonel Campos's officers and men were working so fast, and were so awed by the golden hoard, none thought to check the security forces stationed around the base of the mountain. The radio operator on the peak was too busy coordinating the comings and goings of the helicopters to ask for a report from Captain Diego. No one took the time to look over the edge at the deserted encampment below. Nor did they notice the small band of men who were slowly climbing ever closer to the mountaintop.