“Yes and no.” Trout told Austin about the near miss on the river, the helicopter crash and rescue.
“What do you want to do, Paul?” Austin said quietly.
A heavy sigh came from Trout's end of the line. “I hate to let you down, Kurt, but I can't come back. Not until I find Gamay”
Austin had already made his decision. “You don't have to come back. We'll come down to you.”
“What about the job we've been working on? The archaeology thing?”
“Gunn and Yaeger can work up an operational plan while we're gone. You stay put until we get there.”
“What about the admiral?”
“Don't worry. I'll handle things with Sandecker.”
“I really appreciate this, Kurt. More than you know” The statement was as far as Trout's Yankee reserve would let him go.
Austin dialed Sandecker and told him the story. .
Sandecker had a reputation' for carrying out a project once started, but his loyalty to his staff was equally legendary. “It took me years to put this Special Assignments Team. together. I'm not going to have one of its key members kidnapped by a bunch of damned Mexican bandits. Go get her. You'll have every resource NUMA can offer.”
It was the reaction Austin expected, but one never knew with the unpredictable admiral. “Thank you, sir. I'll start right off with a request for quick transportation to Mexico.”
“When do you want to leave?”
“I want to put together a specialized gear package. Say two hours?”
“You and Zavala be at Andrews Air Force Base with your toothbrushes. A jet will be waiting for you.”
Austin hung up. “Gamay's in trouble, and Paul needs our help.” He sketched out the details. "Sandecker's given the okay.
We'll be leaving from Andrews in about two hours. Can you handle that?"
Zavala was up and heading for the door. “On my way”
A minute later Austin was on the phone again. After a quick conversation he was out of the office as well and on his way to the boathouse, where he threw some gear and clothes into a duffel bag and headed to the airport. Sandecker was true to his word. A sweptwing Cessna Citation X executive jet painted in NUMA turquoise blue was warming up its engines on the tarmac. He and Zavala were tossing their bags to the copilot when an army pickup truck rolled up. Two husky Special Forces men got out and supervised while a forklift hoisted a large wooden box from the truck and into the cargo section of the plane.
Zavala raised an eyebrow. “Glad to see you brought beer for the trip.”
“I thought the basic Austin Rescue Kit might come in handy.” Austin signed a receipt for one of the Special Forces men. Minutes later he and Zavala were buckling into their seats in the plush twelve-passenger cabin, and the plane was in line for takeoff.
The pilot's voice came over the speaker.
“We're cleared for takeoff. We'll be. flying at a cruising speed of Mach .88, which should put us in the Yucatan in less than two hours easy. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. You'll find the scotch in the liquor cabinet and soda and ice cubes in the refrigerator.”
Minutes later the plane was in the air, climbing to its cruising altitude at four thousand feet per minute. As soon as they leveled off Zavala was out of his seat. “This is the fastest commercial jet except for the Concorde,” said a mistyeyed Zavala, who had flown everything under the sun. “I'm going to chat with the guys in the cockpit.”
Austin told him to go ahead. It would give him the chance to think. He put his seat back, closed his eyes, and tried to imagine the events Trout had described in their phone conversation. By the time Zavala came back and relayed the pilot's message that they were about to land, Austin was erecting a mental framework the way a bridge builder extends steel girders into thin air.
Trout was waiting for them as the Citation taxied to a stop. He'd bathed and shaved and had borrowed a camouflage uniform to wear while his suit was being cleaned. The uniform was made for the smaller framed Mexican GI and emphasized Trout's long arms and legs, giving him a spidery aspect.
“Thanks for coming so quickly, guys,” he said, taking their hands.
“We wouldn't have missed seeing you in that uniform for the world,” Austin said with a grin.
“Suit's being laundered,” Trout replied with some discomfort.
“You look quite fetching in cami,” Austin said. “Sort of a distinguished Rambo, wouldn't you say, Joe?”
Zavala shook his head slowly. “Dunno. I think maybe Paul is more the Steven Seagal type. Jean Claude Van Damme, maybe.”
“I'm so glad you rushed down here at NUMA expense to evaluate my sartorial splendor.”
“No problem at all. It's the least we could do for a pal.”
Trout's face grew somber. “Kidding aside, it's great to see your ugly faces. Thanks for coming so quickly. Gamay needs backup in the worst way”
“She'll get more than backup,” Austin replied. “I've got a plan.”
Zavala glanced over at the Special Forces boxes being unloaded from the plane. “Uhoh,” he said.
The greatest asset for a sniper is not aim, Guzman mused, but patience. He sat on a blanket in the bushes on the . shore of the Potomac River; his cold eyes fixed on the Victorian boathouse exactly opposite. He had been there for hours, lapsing into a detached yet alert zombielike state that allowed him to ignore the numbness in his buttocks and the biting insects. He had watched the sun go down, aware of the beauty of the river but not connecting with the changing reflections and shadows in any emotional way.
He knew Austin was not coming even before the automatic nightlight flicked on in the living room of the darkened house. He lifted the Austrian Steyr SSG 69 sniper's rifle from his lap and sighted through the Kahles ZF69 telescopic sight on the picture of a boat hanging on the wall. A squeeze of the trigger would send a bullet winging across the river at 2,821 feet per second. He made a click sound with his tongue, then lowered the rifle, picked up a cell phone, and dialed a number at NUMA headquarters.
The answering machine's recorded message said Mr. Austin would be away from his office for a few days, gave NUMAs office hours and asked Guzman to leave a message. He smiled.. There was only one message he wanted to give Mr. Austin. He punched another number. The phone rang in a car parked outside Zavala's house in Arlington.
“It's off,” Guzman said, and hung up. The two men in the car looked at each other and shrugged, then started the engine and drove off.
Back along the Potomac, Guzman carefully wrapped the rifle in the blanket and set off through the woods as silently as a ghost.
Serpent
35
THE PRAM GLIDED THROUGH THE eerie mists as if in a dream. Moist exhalations rising off the river materialized into ectoplasmic wraiths that waved their spectral arms as if in warning. Go back.
Gamy steered while Chi sat in the bow like a carved mahogany figurehead, his sharp eyes probing the gauzy haze for obstacles human and otherwise. They had been on the move since dawn after overnighting on a small midstream islet. Chi slept ashore on the oversized hummock. The encounter with Old Yellow Beard still gave Gamay the shivers. Chi assured her there was no danger from snakes. Even a worm would have been unwelcome company, she said. She preferred the discomfort but relative security, of the pram. A loud hiss startled her awake, and she was relieved to see it was only the camp stove. Chi was preparing coffee. They had a quick breakfast of trail mix and got an early start on the river.
The chicleros' larder would keep them well supplied for days. With little room in their pram, they had filled another boat with food, bottled water, and fuel and` towed it behind them. The added burden slowed their progress, but the supplies were vital if they expected to survive.
The midmorning sun burned the fog phantoms away, and visibility was dear once more even though the tradeoff was a suffocating humidity. Gamay had found a battered straw hat that helped prevent sunstroke and shaded her eyes from the blinding tropical light.
The river twis
ted and turned. As they approached each bend, Chi raised his hand and Gamay reduced the throttle to an idle. For a few minutes they would float with the current and cock their ears, listening for voices or the buzz of motors. No longer fearful of attack from behind, they were wary of surprises from ahead. They didn't want to round a bend and bump into a boatload of brigands. The jury was still out on the helicopter. They still weren't sure whether it was friend or foe. The chopper had saved them from the rapids. Yet they hadn't forgotten that it also dumped them into the river.
Sometimes a fish jumped out of the water, and the splash was like a gunshot in. a barrel. Otherwise, aside from the metallic gurgle past the aluminum hull, they heard only the chatter and squawk of birds gossiping in the trees and the drone and whine of insects. Gamay was grateful for the generous supply of Cutter's. The bug repellent had to be reapplied frequently to replace the goop washed away by sweat or the occasional rain shower Chi didn't seem to be bothered by bugs. Natural selection, Gamay surmised. Any Mayan susceptible to malaria or other insect borne ailments would have been weeded out of the pack long ago.
The river's character changed as the hours passed. The waterway was reduced to half its original size. Squeezing the same amount of river into fifty percent less space made , for a strong, smooth current. The flat countryside had become more rolling, the banks steeper and higher, covered with impenetrable growth.
Gamay had chafed at their steady but slow African Queen pace. She wasn't sure she liked the toboggan run aspect any better. As their speed picked up there was less margin for error. “I wonder where we are,” she murmured, eyeing the vinecovered limestone walls that closed in from each side.
“I've been thinking the .same thing.” Chi scanned the sky. “We know that must be east because it's where the sun rose. We have need of your Girl Scout training.”
She laughed. “What we really need is a handheld GPS receiver.”
Chi reached into his pack and extracted the ancient instrument they'd found in the cave temple. The sun glinted off the burnished metal. He handed the instrument to Gamay. 'Know how to work one of these gadgets?"
As a marine biologist I spend most of my time under the water and leave it to others to get me there. I've taken a couple of navigational courses, though."
Chi took the tiller while Gamay examined the instrument. It was the first chance for a close look at the device since they discovered it. Again she marveled at the workmanship of the boxlike wooden case and the circular interlocking gears. The lettering was definitely ancient Greek, spelling out the names of various gods.
She applied pressure with her forefinger to the largest wheel, but like the other moving parts it was stuck fast by corrosion. Engraved in the largest wheel were depictions of animals. Sheep. Goats. Bear. Even a lion. From their positioning Gamay concluded that they. represented star constellations. It reminded her of the cardboard star charts with the rotating dials that show the night sky at a given time of the year. Clever.
“Whoever put this device together was a genius,” she said.
“I've only figured out part of its function. It tells you what the, night sky looks like at a given time of year. More important, it could tell you from the sky what time of year it was.”
“In other words, a celestial calendar that would be invaluable in knowing when to expect the rainy season, when to plant and harvest.”
And when to sail, too. Also where you are. You can use the backside as a sextant that gives you an approximate but fairly accurate sun's azimuth."
“What are the other wheels used for?”
“They could be a can opener for all I know You'll have to ask someone with technical expertise;” Gamay said with a shake of her head. “Too bad the mechanism is corroded. I wouldn't mind knowing where we are..”
Chi rummaged in his rucksack and pulled out a map which he spread on his knees. “This river isn't shown,” he said, tracing their approximate route with his finger. “My guess is it's only this big after rainy season. When we factor in our direction and speed, I'd venture that if we haven't gone over the border to Guatemala, we're very close to it. Which would make sense. The looted artifacts are smuggled through Guatemala. to Belize and points beyond.”
“I wasn't planning on a trip to Guatemala when I came down here for NUMA, but I guess I don't have much choice.”
“Look on the bright side,” Chi said. “We have the chance to put a stop to this terrible business of smuggling antiquities.”
Gamay cocked an eyebrow. She hoped some of Chi's optimism would rub off. Given the precarious state of their minute-to-minute existence, she hadn't thought of them as a smugglerbusting duo. Her main goal was survival. She was getting tired of playing the Perils of Pauline. The fact that they weren't dead was probably mostly a result of dumb luck.
She indicated several penciled X's on the map. Any idea what these are?'
After a moment's study Chi said, “They could be anything. Dig sites, places they stockpiled artifacts or supplies, distribution.”
And we're heading right into the middle of things from what this handydandy device tells us." She hefted the instrument and gave it back to Chi.
“Interesting,” Chi said thoughtfully as he carefully stuffed the ancient instrument into his pack. “In our zeal to put this to practical use we have forgotten its archaeological significance.”
“I'll leave it to others to hash that out. I'm a marine biologist now.”
“Yet you can't deny that finding an ancient Greek artifact in a pre-Columbian setting raises questions.”
“Questions I'm not prepared to answer.”
“Nor am 1. Not yet. But I know that I will bring the wrath of the archaeological establishment down on my head at the slightest hint of pre-Columbian contact with Europe. This instrument did not get here by itself. It was either delivered by Europeans to America or transported by Americans who went to Europe.”
“Maybe it's a good thing we don't have anybody to tell,” Gamay said.
The strengthening current ended their discussion. The river had become even narrower and gorgelike, the walls steeper and higher. Chi was having trouble controlling the boat, and Gamay took over. There was no noisy ,rushing of water that would indicate they were near rapids, not yet, but Gamay stayed alert.
“Our speed is picking up,” she told Chi.
“Can you slow us down?” .
“I've got the motor practically on idle to maintain steering control. Keep a sharp eye and ear out. If it looks like rough water ahead I'll steer for shore, and we'll figure out what to do.”
At the foot of the walllike bankings was a muddy beach a couple of yards wide. Enough space to pull off the river for a breather. She was buoyed by another consideration. This was fine only way the chicleros could have come. Which meant the river was navigable for a small boat. Controlling the towed boat was a problem. Time to pull up on shore, transfer supplies, and cut loose.
The river suddenly narrowed considerably, and the water speed doubled.
She and Chi exchanged puzzled glances. Still no sound of rapids. They were rounding a long curve, the bankings closing in so that it seemed that they could almost touch them. Gamay planned to go wide on the turn and simply rum the boat onto the narrow beach. The supply boat whipsawed, then jerked in the other direction to throw her steering off. She knew from . experience that when things go wrong on a boat they realty go wrong. Drastic action is the only way to avoid disaster.
“Cut her loose!” she shouted.
Chi stared at her, uncomprehending.
She made a knifing motion with the edge of her hand. “Cut the supply boat line, or it will tangle in our propeller.”
Once Chi understood he acted quickly. He severed the towline with a quick swipe of his machete. The loaded pram went into a slow spin and headed right at them. Gamay and Chi were both watching the boat, hoping it would pass them. A collision in the narrow canyon would be a disaster. She was glancing over her shoulder, trying to steer s
o as to avoid a crash, and didn't see the wall of limestone that loomed directly in their path until the last second.
Gamay ducked so she wouldn't hit her head as the pram shot through an opening in the wall. Within seconds the swiftmoving river had sucked them deep into the maw, and the vestiges of daylight disappeared.
“We need a flashlight, Professor,” she said, her voice echoing in the inky darkness.
The flashlight flicked on, and the shaft of light fell on wet rocks that glistened only yards away She swung the tiller to avoid a crash, oversteering in her haste, and was turned sideways by the current. After a few dicey moments she had the boat under control again and was moving with the river flow.
Chi played the flashlight beam ahead and above on rough wet walls and ceilings. The underground river reminded Gamay of a fun house, only she wasn't having any fun. Especially after the beam picked up what looked like clusters of black leaves covering the ceiling. The light reflected on thousands of burning-red pinpoints of light. She held her breath not so much out of fear but to block out the overpowering ammonia stench.
“I hate bats,” she muttered, gritting her teeth.
“Keep still, and you'll be all right,” Chi cautioned.
No need for that warning. Gamay was frozen in place by the thought of leathery wings and sharp pointed teeth.
The creatures stayed where they were, however, and in time the bat population thinned out to nothing.
“Fascinating,” Chi said. “I've never seen a river go underground so abruptly.”
“Excuse me for saying so, Professor Chi, but your country has too many caves and holes in the ground for my taste.”
“Si, Dr. Gamay It's like Swiss cheese, I'm afraid.”
Gamay tried to look on the bright side, then realized there wasn't one. They had been sucked into the bowels of the earth, and there was no assurance they would ever come out. At best, this was the route the chicleros used, which meant they might bump into more of the smugglers. Gamay lifted the propeller out of the water, and they used a paddle to steer, fending off with their hands and feet when the pram bumped noisily into the sides of the cave.