Havana Storm

Summer gave him a tired grin. “For all the trouble we’ve endured in finding it, I sure hope it has something to tell us.”

  82

  It took several hours before Summer got her answer. The process of securing a sling around the stone and attaching several lift bags required two trips to the surface and considerable finessing with the Starfish’s manipulator arm. Assisting the lift bags with a tug on the lines, the submersible helped pull the stone off the bottom and tracked its ascent to the surface.

  A crane on the Sargasso Sea gently hoisted the stone aboard, then retrieved the submersible. The ship’s crew and scientists were crowded around the artifact by the time Dirk and Summer made their way over for a look.

  “Looks like a perfect match to the stone in Díaz’s office,” Pitt said.

  The carvings were less crisp, due to their immersion, but Summer saw much the same patterns and glyphs found on the earlier stone. There was even the completed carving of the bird, which she could see was a heron.

  Perhaps more important was the diagram carved at the bottom. It appeared to be a geographic representation of a bay or harbor, with a handful of islands sprinkled about the top. She rubbed her fingertips across the surface, wondering what secret it would reveal.

  “Summer, can you kindly stand to the side for a second?” Jack Dahlgren said. “You’re blocking the camera.”

  She turned to see Dahlgren standing behind a tripod with a video camera. “Do you have a satellite link with Dr. Madero?”

  “He’s standing by on the laptop next to the cylinder rack.”

  Summer and Dirk stepped to the computer, which showed a live image of Dr. Madero in his office in Mexico. His head was bandaged, but he smiled broadly.

  “Dirk, Summer, I am just seeing the images. They are wonderful!”

  “A long time in coming,” Summer said. “How are you feeling, Professor?”

  “Fine, just fine. I’m still having occasional headaches, but the doctors say those will go away. It’s a funny thing, waking up in the hospital after being unconscious for three days. My memory had vacated me, but gradually things have come back.”

  “We were shocked to learn Díaz had attacked you in your office.”

  “An evil man who got what he deserved. I am glad you both are safe.”

  “Safe and anxious to learn what the stone says,” Summer said as Pitt and Giordino joined them for the assessment.

  “I’ve been able to join a still image of the first stone with one your man Dahlgren just sent me of the recovered piece. It finally allows a rough but somewhat complete translation. Of course, Dr. Torres could have provided a finer interpretation, God rest his soul.”

  “What does it indicate?” Summer asked, unable to contain her excitement.

  “I’ll summarize as best as I can. It starts with an appearance by Quetzalcoatl, a legendary Toltec ruler, and his army. Motecuhzoma welcomes him but is then killed. There is a rebellion against the intruding forces, where much blood is spilled. Quetzalcoatl is seen to depart during the fighting.

  “Afterward, the elders gather gifts and offerings, which are placed in the care of the Eagle and Jaguar Warriors. The offerings are transported in seven vessels across the water to an island marked on the drawing at the base of the stone. There is a representation of Huitzilopochtli, the Aztec ancestral deity. This, along with the image of the heron, suggests they somehow returned to their ancestral home of Aztlán.”

  “Any speculation where that island is located?” Dirk asked.

  “There is only the image on the bottom—and an indication the voyage may have lasted ten days. Since we don’t know where they started from, or which direction they traveled, it is difficult to wager a guess.”

  “I just sent an image of the stone to Yaeger,” Dahlgren said as he also joined the group. “Maybe his computers can find a geographic match.”

  “I understand the bit about shipping off some treasured goodies,” Giordino said, “but, Professor, who are these Quetzalcoatl, Motecuhzoma, and Huitzilopochtli characters?”

  “Huitzilopochtli is the Aztec’s ancient founding father, a sort of deified George Washington who led a migration of the Mexica to Tenochtitlan. Quetzalcoatl was a legendary Toltec leader who lived centuries earlier. The Aztecs prophesied he would return someday to regain his throne. He was therefore linked with the arrival of Hernan Cortés and his Spanish conquistadors in 1519. Many historians believe the Aztecs thought Cortés was the second coming of Quetzalcoatl. The stone’s inscription would seem to indicate such a belief was true.”

  “So if Cortés represented the reincarnation of Quetzalcoatl,” Giordino asked, “then who was this Motecuhzoma?”

  “We know him better as Montezuma,” Pitt said.

  Summer looked at her father. “So that’s what you discovered in Díaz’s office?”

  “It was a guess, but Díaz had a codex page showing a warrior bedecked in jewels and a green feather headdress. I recall seeing photos of a similar headdress attributed to Montezuma.”

  “Or Moctezuma, as he’s more accurately referred to these days,” Madero said.

  “Díaz knew the connection,” Pitt said, “that’s why he nearly killed you for the stone.”

  “What value does Moctezuma add to the mix?” Giordino asked.

  “A great deal,” Madero said. “You see, the account on the stone correlates with the Spanish record. Cortés and his force of five hundred men landed near Veracruz in 1519. They soon marched to the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan, a fabulous city built on an island in Lake Texcoco, which is now the heart of Mexico City.

  “Moctezuma personally welcomed Cortés and his troops, but the air was thick with mutual distrust. Moctezuma nevertheless brought to Cortés the treasures of the Aztec empire, which included large quantities of gold.

  “Moctezuma was shortly thereafter killed, possibly by his own people, and Cortés was unable to maintain the peace. The Spanish were forced to flee for their lives, barely escaping the angry onslaught of the Aztec warriors.”

  “So the Spanish didn’t get away with the gold?” Giordino said.

  “Only a small portion of it. Cortés regrouped and returned a few months later and lay siege to Tenochtitlan, ultimately taking the city in a bloody conquest. But the gold and riches had vanished. The whereabouts of Moctezuma’s gold has remained a mystery for centuries.”

  “Until now,” Pitt said. “The codex and stones tell us the story. The Aztecs packed their treasure into large canoes and sailed east into the Caribbean. We found the remains of one of their canoes off Jamaica, so we know they exist—and that they were large and seagoing.”

  “A remarkable voyage, to be sure. I’ll work up a more thoughtful translation of the stone,” Madero said. “If I find anything noteworthy, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you, Professor,” Summer replied. “Perhaps we can meet at the National Museum in Havana and see both stones together.”

  “It’s a date,” Madero said. He disconnected the video link and faded from the screen.

  “So the question is, where did they go?” Summer asked.

  A silent pause hung over the group, then Dahlgren turned their attention to the laptop computer. “I think Hiram may have something for you.”

  A live video feed showed Yaeger in his computer center at NUMA headquarters. “I hear you need some help with your treasure map.”

  “I’m afraid the Aztecs didn’t leave us any latitude and longitude coordinates,” Pitt said. “Could you make anything from the diagram on the stones?”

  “As a matter of fact, Max gave me an answer in about twelve seconds,” he said, referring to his computer system. “I conducted a search for a comparable geographic configuration, limiting the scope to the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean Sea, and both coasts of Mexico. I found about a dozen near misses and one pretty good match.”

  He
held up a paper showing the stone diagram on half the page and a satellite image of a similarly shaped bay on the other. “Pretty close correlation, if I do say so.”

  “It looks dead-on,” Pitt said.

  “Are we at all close to it?” Summer asked, elbowing her way to the computer. “Can we get to the site from here?”

  “Oh, you can reach the site all right,” Yaeger said, flashing his teeth in a broad grin. “It’s just leaving there that might pose a problem.”

  83

  Puerto Grande was the name Christopher Columbus bestowed on the large, crescent-shaped bay he discovered in 1494. It remained under Spanish control for the next four hundred years, serving as an important terminus for the export of cotton and sugar. In June 1898, American Marines stormed ashore and captured the environs in one of the first land battles of the Spanish–American War. By then, the inlet had taken the name of a nearby river and was called Guantánamo Bay.

  After the quick defeat of the Spanish, the United States entered into a lease with the newly independent Cuban government for a forty-five-square-mile block of the outer bay for use as a naval refueling station. Occupied today by the Naval Station Guantánamo Bay and its unpopular detention camp, the U.S. pays only a few thousand dollars each year to the Cubans under a perpetual lease—rendered in checks that have long gone uncashed by the Castro government.

  Summer stood on the bow of the Sargasso Sea, enjoying the sun and breeze as the research ship entered the bay. An Orion P-3 surveillance plane swooped down and landed at a compact airfield to her left, while the ship curled around to the main naval base on her right. The ship eased into an open dock alongside a Navy frigate.

  She joined Pitt, her brother, and Giordino in debarking the ship.

  Two officers awaited their arrival. To their surprise, standing with them was St. Julien Perlmutter, who had flown down from Washington, the first time he’d been in an airplane in ten years.

  “Welcome to Gitmo,” the senior of the two officers said in a forced welcome. “I’m Admiral Stewart, Joint Task Force Commander.”

  “Kind of you to welcome us, Admiral,” Pitt said, shaking hands.

  “It’s not often I receive a call from the Vice President requesting my assistance in a historical goose chase.”

  “I can assure you,” Perlmutter said in his best huffy tone, “there are no geese involved.”

  “May I introduce Commander Harold Joyce. Among other duties, he is our de facto base historian. I’m confident Commander Joyce can see to your needs. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Stewart turned and marched off the deck.

  “Somebody put some rocks in his porridge?” Dirk asked.

  Joyce laughed. “No, he just doesn’t like politicians ordering him around. Especially politicians he once outranked.”

  “Vice President Sandecker has been known to stomp on some toes now and then,” Pitt said.

  The naval commander, a short man with glasses, gave Summer a friendly smile, then turned to Perlmutter. “Mr. Perlmutter, I am thrilled that you are here visiting Gitmo. I recently read your history of the Roman navy and found it fascinating.”

  “You’re one of a small minority, but thank you. Did you have any luck with our request?”

  “You indicated that you were looking for a cave or repository on one of the islands. There are several islands in the bay, but only two have any real size or elevation—Hospital Cay and Medico Cay. I hiked around both islands, but I’m afraid I didn’t find anything resembling a natural cave.”

  “Perhaps it’s sealed up,” Summer said.

  “You may be right.” Joyce said, responding to Summer eagerly. “There was really only one landmark that may be of interest. It’s an old ammunition bunker on Hospital Cay. I didn’t think much of it, but when I did some investigating, I found it was built in the earliest days of the base. It remains locked up, but I could find no inventory records that it was ever actually used for munitions storage.”

  “Since we’re here, could we have a look?” Summer asked.

  Perlmutter nodded. “I think that would be most judicious.”

  “Absolutely,” Joyce said. “I took the liberty of obtaining the old man’s approval. The hardest part was finding a key to the lock. I spent four hours rummaging around the base archives. I don’t think that place has been swept in a century.”

  “Any luck?” Summer asked.

  Joyce produced a brass key the size of a hardcover book.

  “I’ve got a launch waiting at the next dock,” he said. “Let’s go have a look.”

  The group squeezed into the launch, and Joyce took them across the bay to a small island at its center. Pitt was surprised to see a small freighter traversing the bay, a Cuban flag flying from its staff.

  “Per the terms of the lease agreement signed in 1903, the Cubans have full right of passage through the bay even though it cuts right across our base,” Joyce said. “We used to get refugees floating downstream on rafts, but the Cuban military monitors things pretty tightly now.”

  He drove the boat ashore at Hospital Cay, a half-mile-long island with an elevated ridge that ran down its thin length like a spine. The island was arid like the nearby landscape, covered with low shrubs and cacti.

  Pitt noticed several deep indentations in the soil near their landing, evidence of an earlier structure. “This place has some history with the base?”

  “It sure does,” Joyce said. “This was where the original coaling station was built to refuel the Navy’s ships. It was the reason they wanted the bay. Several large bunkers were built on the ridge, connected to a gurney that ran out to the docks. It lasted until 1937, when the Navy’s coal-burning ships went by the wayside.”

  Dirk peered across the now barren island. “They didn’t leave much for posterity.”

  “They tore everything down a few years later and the place has sat empty ever since. But one thing they didn’t remove was the munitions bunker. It’s at the north end of the cay.”

  It was a short hike to the other side of the island, but they were all sweating under the warm, humid climate when they reached a small cut in the ridge. Joyce led them to a concrete archway embedded into the side of the hill that was sealed with thick steel doors. He placed the big brass key in the lock and tried to turn it, but he couldn’t get the mechanism to budge.

  “Let me see that key, young man.” Perlmutter bulled his way to the door. Grabbing the key, he applied some of his four-hundred-pound mass to bear. The lock gave a grinding click and he shoved the door open.

  The interior was completely empty. The room stretched twenty feet into the hillside, with walls made of tightly laid stone. There was no treasure or even ammunition present. The group crowded in and looked around in disappointment.

  “So much for Montezuma’s treasure,” said Summer with disappointment in her voice.

  “Obviously, robbers cleaned it out,” Joyce muttered sadly.

  “Not the first time thieves have been at work,” Perlmutter said. “The pyramids were emptied, too.”

  “Probably three thousand years ago,” Pitt said absently as he began walking around the chamber, tapping the stones while studying the tight fit of the seams.

  Perlmutter gazed at him, “Looking for a hidden door?”

  Pitt spoke as he rapped the stones with the big brass key. “Strikes me as odd there’s no remnants or indication that anything was ever stored in this chamber. It’s as though it was scrubbed clean.”

  Giordino aimed his light on the concrete floor. “Puts my house to shame.”

  It took Pitt forty minutes before finding a different dull sound instead of the cling of solid rock.

  Giordino went to the launch and returned with a toolbox. With a hammer and chisel, he and Pitt attacked what soon became a loose stone.

  Taking turns, Pitt and Giordino carved a hole on one edge of the stone. J
amming the chisel deeper in the hole, Dirk and Al used a large screwdriver to pry the stone from the side. Sweating and on the verge of exhaustion, they slid the stone forward by an inch. Working from the other side, they moved the stone again. Giordino pushed everyone aside and manhandled the large stone onto the floor.

  For a long moment, they all stood silent and stared at the space beyond. It was as if they were all afraid to peer beyond the wall and find nothing there. Pitt then pushed a flashlight inside and swept its beam across the darkness. Unable to contain her excitement, Summer pushed her face into the opening. “I see a jaguar,” she said in a hushed voice, “I think it’s standing guard.” She turned and gave her brother and father a knowing grin.

  Unable to resist, Dirk moved Summer’s head aside. “And enough gold to fill Fort Knox!” Taking turns, they hacked through enough stones to create an opening large enough to pass through.

  Summer was the first to enter, stepping into the chamber. A large yellow and black-spotted feline greeted her, its jaws frozen open. Summer moved her light lower, illuminating a carved figure of a native warrior beneath the jaguar-skin headdress.

  She stepped past the carved warrior. A long dark cavern sparkled with an amber reflection under the beam of her flashlight.

  Gold.

  It was everywhere, in the form of carved figurines, gilded spears and shields, and jewelry draped upon stone plates and bowls. A large wooden canoe was wedged against one of the walls, filled to its gunnels with gold objects, jewel-encrusted masks, and elaborate carved stone disks.

  The others followed Summer in and gaped at the artifacts.

  Joyce couldn’t believe his eyes. “What is all this?”

  Pitt pointed to a large cotton cloak covered in jewels and bright green feathers. “The treasure of Montezuma.”

  Summer hugged her brother. “It’s a small redemption for Dr. Torres.”

  Perlmutter gazed at the artifacts with child-like wonder. “It’s all true,” he murmured.

  Pitt strode up to the big man. “St. Julien, I believe you may have been holding out on us. You knew it was here all the time, didn’t you?”