He had tried to conserve his three flashlights, but one by one their batteries gave out and he dropped them over the side. He estimated that only twenty minutes of light remained in his last lamp before the Stygian gloom returned for good.
Running rapids in a raft under the sun and blue sky is called white-water rafting, his exhausted mind deliberated. Down here they could call it black-water rafting. The idea sounded very funny and for some reason he laughed. His laughter carried into a vast side chamber, echoing in a hundred eerie sounds. If he hadn't known it came from him, it would have curdled his blood.
It no longer seemed possible that there could be any place but this nightmare maze of caverns creeping tortuously end on end through such an alien environment. He had lost all sense of direction. "Bearings"
was only a word from a dictionary. His compass was made useless by an abundance of iron ore in the rock. He felt so disoriented and removed from the surface world above that he wondered if he had finally crossed the threshold into lunacy. The only breath of sanity was fueled by the stupendous sights revealed by the light from his lamp.
He forced himself to regain control by playing mind games. He tried to memorize details of each new cavern and gallery, of each bend and turn of the river, so he could describe them to others after he escaped to sunlight. But there were so many of them his numbed mind found it impossible to retain more than a few vivid images. Not only that, he found he had to concentrate on keeping the Windbag afloat.
Another float cell was hissing its buoyancy away through a puncture.
How far have I come? he wondered dully. How much farther to the end? His fogged mind was wandering. He had to get a grip on himself. He was beyond hunger, no thoughts of thick steaks or prime rib with a bottle of beer flooded through his mind. His battered and spent body had given far more than he expected from it.
The shrunken hull of the Hovercraft struck the cavern's roof which arched downward into the water.
The craft revolved in circles, bumping against the rock until it worked off to one side of the mainstream of the river and gently grounded on a shoal. Pitt lay in the pool that half-filled the interior, his legs dangling over the sides, too played out to don the last air tank, deflate the craft, and convey it through the flooded gallery ahead.
He couldn't pass out. Not now. He had too far to go. He took several deep breaths and drank a small amount of water. He groped for the thermos, untied it from a hook and finished the last of the coffee. The caffeine helped revive him a bit. He flipped the thermos into the river and watched it float against the rock, too buoyant to drift through to the other side.
The lamp was so weak it barely threw a beam. He switched it off to save what little juice was left in the batteries, lay back, and stared into the suffocating blackness.
Nothing hurt anymore. His nerve endings had shut down and his body was numb. He must have been almost two pints low on blood, he figured. He hated to face the thought of failure. For a few minutes he refused to believe he couldn't make it back to the world above. The faithful Wallowing Windbag had taken him this far, but if it lost one more float cell he would have to abandon it and carry on alone. He began concentrating his waning energies on the effort that still lay ahead.
Something jogged his memory. He smelled something. What was it they said about smells? They can trigger past events in your mind. He breathed in deeply, trying not to let the scent get away before he could recall why it was so familiar. He licked his lips and recognized a taste that hadn't been there before.
Salt. And then it washed over him.
The smell of the sea.
He had finally reached the end of the subterranean river system that climaxed in the Gulf.
Pitt popped open his eyes and raised his hand until it almost touched the tip of his nose. He couldn't distinguish detail, but there was a vague shadow that shouldn't have been there in the eternal dark of his subterranean world. He stared down into the water and detected a murky reflection. Light was seeping in from the passage ahead.
The discovery that daylight was within reach raised immensely his hopes of surviving.
He climbed out of the Wallowing Windbag and considered the two worst hazards he now faced--
length of dive to the surface and decompression. He checked the pressure gauge that ran. from the manifold of the air tank. Eight hundred fifty pounds per square inch. Enough air for a run of maybe 300
meters (984 feet), providing he stayed calm, breathed easily, and didn't exert himself. If surface air was much beyond that, he wouldn't have to worry about the other problem, decompression. He'd drown long before acquiring the notorious bends.
Periodic checks of his depth gauge during his long journey had told him the pressure inside most of the airfilled caverns ran only slightly higher than the outside atmospheric pressure. A concern but not a great fear. And he had seldom exceeded 30 meters of depth when diving under a flooded overhang that divided two open galleries. If faced with the same situation, he would have to be careful to make a controlled 18-meter (60-foot) per-minute ascent to avoid decompression sickness.
Whatever the obstacles, he could neither go back nor stay where he was. He had to go on. There was no other decision to make. This would be the final test of what little strength and resolve was still left in him.
He wasn't dead yet. Not until he breathed the last tiny bit of oxygen in his air tank. And then he would go on until his lungs burst.
He checked to see that the manifold valves were open and the low-pressure hose was connected to his buoyancy compensator. Next, he strapped on his tank and buckled the quick-release snaps. A quick breath to be sure his regulator was functioning properly and he was ready.
Without his lost dive mask, his vision would be blurred, but all he had to do was swim toward the light.
He clamped his teeth on the mouthpiece of his breathing regulator, gathered his nerve, and counted to three.
It was time to go, and he dove into the river for the last time.
As he gently kicked his bare feet he'd have given his soul for his lost fins. Down, down the overhang sloped ahead of him. He passed thirty meters, then forty. He began to worry after he passed fifty meters.
When diving on compressed air, there is an invisible barrier between sixty and eighty meters. Beyond that a diver begins to feel like a drunk and loses control of his mental faculties.
His air tank made an unearthly screeching sound as it scraped against the rock above him. Because he had dropped his weight belt after his near-death experience over the great waterfall, and because of the neoprene in his shredded wet suit, he was diving with positive buoyancy. He doubled over and dove deeper to avoid the contact.
Pitt thought the plunging rock would never end. His depth gauge read 75 meters (246 feet) before the current carried him beneath and around the tip of the overhang. Now the upward slope was gradual. Not the ideal situation. He'd have preferred a direct ascent to the surface to cut the distance and save his dwindling air supply.
The light grew steadily brighter until he could read the numbers of his dive watch without the aid of the dying beam from the lamp. The hands on the orange dial read ten minutes after five o'clock. Was it early morning or afternoon? How long since he dove into the river? He couldn't remember if it was ten minutes or fifty. His mind sluggishly puzzled over the answers.
The clear, transparent emerald green of the river water turned more blue and opaque. The current was fading and his ascent slowed. There was a distant shimmer above him. At last the surface itself appeared.
He was in the Gulf. He had exited the river passage and was swimming in the Sea of Cortez. Pitt looked up and saw a shadow looming far in the distance. One final check of his air pressure gauge. The needle quivered on zero. His air was almost gone.
Rather than suck in a huge gulp, he used what little was left to partially inflate his buoyancy compensator so it would gently lift him to the surface if he blacked out from lack of oxygen.
One last inhalation that barely puffed out his lungs and he relaxed, exhaling small breaths to compensate for the declining pressure as he rose from the depths. The hiss of his air bubbles leaving the regulator diminished as his lungs ran dry.
The surface appeared so close he could reach out and touch it when his lungs began to burn. It was a spiteful illusion. The waves were still 20 meters (66 feet) away.
He put some strength into his kick as a huge elastic band seemed to tighten around his chest. Soon, the desire for air became his only world as darkness started seeping around the edges of his eyes.
Pitt became entangled in something that hindered his ascent. His vision, blurred without a dive mask, failed to distinguish what was binding him. Instinctively, he thrashed clumsily in an attempt to free himself.
A great roaring sound came from inside his brain as it screamed in protest. But in that instant before blackness shut down his mind, he sensed that his body was being pulled toward the surface.
"I've hooked a big one!" shouted Joe Hagen joyously,
"You got a marlin?" Claire asked excitedly, seeing her husband's fishing pole bent like a question mark.
"He's not giving much fight for a marlin," Joe panted as he feverishly turned the crank on his reel.
"Feels more like a dead weight."
"Maybe you dragged him to death."
"Get the gaff. He's almost to the surface."
Claire snatched a long-handled gaff from two hooks and pointed it over the side of the yacht like a spear. "I see something," she cried. "It looks big and black."
Then she screamed in horror.
Pitt was a millimeter away from unconsciousness when his head broke into a trough between the waves. He spit out his regulator and drew in a deep breath. The sun's reflection on the water blinded eyes that hadn't seen light in almost two days. He squinted rapturously at the sudden kaleidoscope of colors.
Relief, joy of living, fulfillment of a great accomplishment-- they flooded together.
A woman's scream pierced his ears and he looked up, startled to see the Capri-blue hull of a yacht rising beside him and two people staring over the side, their faces pale as death. It was then that he realized he was entangled in fishing line. Something slapped against his leg. He gripped the line and pulled a small skipjack tuna, no longer than his foot, out of the water. The poor thing had a huge hook protruding from its mouth.
Pitt gently gripped the fish under one armpit and eased out the hook with his good hand. Then he stared into the little fish's beady eyes.
"Look, Toto," he said jubilantly, "we're back in Kansas!"
Commander Maderas and his crew had moved out of San Felipe and resumed their search pattern when the call came through from the Hagens.
"Sir," said his radioman, "I just received an urgent message from the yacht The First Attempt."
"What does it say?"
"The skipper, an American by the name of Joseph Hagen, reports picking up a man he caught while fishing."
Maderas frowned. "He must mean he snagged a dead body while trolling."
"No, sir, he was quite definite. The man he caught is alive."
Maderas was puzzled. "Can't be the one we're searching for. Not after viewing the other one. Have any boats in the area reported a crew member lost overboard?"
The radioman shook his head. "I've heard nothing."
"What is The First Attempt's position?"
"Twelve nautical miles to the northwest of us."
Maderas stepped into the wheelhouse and nodded at Hidalgo. "Set a course to the northwest and watch for an American yacht." Then he turned to his radioman. "Call this Joseph Hagen for more details on the man they pulled from the water and tell him to remain at his present position. We'll rendezvous in approximately thirty-five minutes."
Hidalgo looked at him across the chart table. "What do you think?"
Maderas smiled. "As a good Catholic, I must believe what the church tells me about miracles. But this is one I have to see for myself."
The fleet of yachts and the many boats of the Mexican fishing fleets that ply the Sea of Cortez have their own broadcast network. There is considerable bantering among the brotherhood of boat owners, similar to the old neighborhood telephone party lines. The chatter includes weather reports, invitations to seaboard social parties, the latest news from home ports, and even a rundown of items for sale or swap.
The word went up and down the Gulf about the owners of The First Attempt catching a human on a fishing line. Interest was fueled by those who embellished the story before passing it on through the Baja net. Yacht owners who tuned in late heard a wild tale about the Hagens catching a killer whale and finding a live man inside.
Some of the larger oceangoing vessels were equipped with radios capable of reaching stations in the United States. Soon reports were rippling out from Baja to as far away as Washington.
The Hagen broadcast was picked up by a Mexican navy radio station in La Paz. The radio operator on duty asked for confirmation, but Hagen was too busy jabbering away with other yacht owners and failed to reply. Thinking it was another of the wild parties in the boating social swing, he noted it in his log and concentrated on official navy signals.
When he went off duty twenty minutes later, he casually mentioned it to the officer in charge of the station.
"It sounded pretty loco," he explained. "The report came in English. Probably an intoxicated gringo playing games over his radio."
"Better send a patrol boat to make an inspection," said the officer. "I'll inform the Northern District Fleet Headquarters and see who we have in the area."
Fleet headquarters did not have to be informed. Maderas had already alerted them that he was heading at full speed toward The First Attempt. Headquarters had also received an unexpected signal from the Mexican chief of naval operations, ordering the commanding officer to rush the search and extend every effort for a successful rescue operation.
Admiral Ricardo Alvarez was having lunch with his wife at the officers' club when an aide hurried to his table with both signals.
"A man caught by a fisherman." Alvarez snorted. "What kind of nonsense is this?"
"That was the message relayed by Commander Maderas of the G-21," replied the aide.
"How soon before Maderas comes in contact with the yacht?"
"He should rendezvous at any moment."
"I wonder why Naval Operations is so involved with an ordinary tourist lost at sea?"
"Word has come down that the President himself is interested in the rescue," said the aide.
Admiral Alvarez gave his wife a sour look. "I knew that damned North American Free Trade Agreement was a mistake. Now we have to kiss up to the Americans every time one of them falls in the Gulf."
So it was that there were more questions than answers when Pitt was transferred from The First Attempt soon after the patrol vessel came alongside. He stood on the deck, partially supported by Hagen, who had stripped off the torn wet suit and lent Pitt a golf shirt and a pair of shorts. Claire had replaced the bandage on his shoulder and taped one over the nasty cut on his forehead.
He shook hands with Joseph Hagen. "I guess I'm the biggest fish you ever caught."
Hagen laughed. "Sure something to tell the grandkids."
Pitt then kissed Claire on the cheek. "Don't forget to send me your recipe for fish chowder. I've never tasted any so good."
"You must have liked it. You put away at least a gallon."
"I'll always be in your debt for saving my life. Thank you."
Pitt turned and was helped into a small launch that ferried him to the patrol boat. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, he was greeted by Maderas and Hidalgo before being escorted to the sick bay by the ship's medical corpsman. Prior to ducking through a hatch, Pitt turned and gave a final wave to the Hagens.
Joe and Claire stood with their arms around each other's waist. Joe turned and looked at his wife with a puzzled expression and said, "I've never caught five fish in my entir
e life and you can't cook worth sour grapes. What did he mean by your great-tasting fish chowder?"
Claire sighed. "The poor man. He was so hurt and hungry I didn't have the heart to tell him I fed him canned soup doused with brandy."
Curtis Starger got the word in Guaymas that Pitt had been found alive. He was searching the hacienda used by the Zolars. The call came in over his Motorola Iridium satellite phone from his office in Calexico.
In an unusual display of teamwork, the Mexican investigative agencies had allowed Starger and his Customs people to probe the buildings and grounds for additional evidence to help convict the family dynasty of art thieves.
Starger and his agents had arrived to find the grounds and airstrip empty of all life. The hacienda was vacant and the pilot of Joseph Zolar's private plane had decided now was a good time to resign. He simply walked through the front gate, took a bus into town, and caught a flight to his home in Houston, Texas.
A search of the hacienda turned up nothing concrete. The rooms had been cleaned of any incriminating evidence. The abandoned plane parked on the airstrip was another matter. Inside, Starger found four crudely carved wooden effigies with childlike faces painted on them.
"What do you make of these?" Starger asked one of the agents, who was an expert in ancient Southwest artifacts.
"They look like some kind of Indian religious symbols."
"Are they made from cottonwood?"
The agent lifted his sunglasses and examined the idols close up. "Yes, I think I can safely say they're carved out of cottonwood."
Starger ran his hand gently over one of the idols. "I have a suspicion these are the sacred idols Pitt was looking for."
Rudi Gunn was told while he was lying in a hospital bed. A nurse entered his room, followed by one of Starger's agents.