Inca Gold by Clive Cussler
Pitt understood. The continuous roar of the rapids seemed to be slackening. The Hovercraft responded to his control again, but sluggishly, because it was half-full of water. The excess weight was making it impossible to maintain an air-cushion. He increased the throttle and yelled to Giordino.
"Start bailing!"
The boat designers had thought of everything. Giordino inserted a lever into a small pump and began shoving it back and forth, causing a gush of water to shoot through a pipe over the side.
Pitt leaned over and studied the depths under his headlamps. The channel seemed more constricted, and although the rocks were no longer churning up the water, the river seemed to be moving at a horrifying speed. Suddenly, he noticed that Giordino had stopped bailing and was listening with an apocalyptic look on his face. And then Pitt heard it too.
A deep rumble boomed from the black void downriver.
Giordino stared at him. "I think we just bought the farm!" he shouted.
The vision of going over Niagara Falls returned. This was no spout from above they were approaching. The sound that reverberated through the cavern was that of an enormous volume of water rushing over an immense cascade.
"Hit the inflator on your buoyancy compensator!" Pitt roared above the chaos.
The water was sweeping them along at a good twenty knots and appeared to be funneling into a concentrated surge. A million liters of water sucked them toward the unseen precipice. They rounded the next bend and sailed into a maelstrom of mist. The thunderous rumble became deafening.
There was no fear, no sense of helplessness, no feeling of despair. All Pitt felt was a strange numbness as if all power of intelligent thought had abruptly evaporated. It seemed to him that he was entering a nightmare where nothing had any shape or form. His final moment of clarity came when the Wallowing Windbag hung suspended for a moment before soaring into the mist.
With no point of reference, there was no sensation of falling, rather, it seemed as if they were flying through a cloud. Then his hold on the control bar was lost and he was hurled out of the Hovercraft. He thought he heard Giordino shout something, but the voice was lost in the roar of the falls. The drop through the vortex seemed to take forever. And then came the impact. He struck a deep pool at the base of the falls like a meteor. The air was driven from his lungs and he thought at first that he was smashed to bloody pulp on rocks, but then he felt the comforting squeeze of water all around him.
Instinctively holding his breath, he fought to reach the surface. Aided by his inflated buoyancy compensator, he quickly broke clear and was immediately swept away by the torrent. Rocks reached out for him like shrouded predators of the underworld. He was flung down a spill of rapids, colliding, he'd have sworn, with every boulder that protruded from the river. The contact rasped and shredded his wet suit, stripping skin from his legs and outspread arms. He suffered a blow to his chest and then his head struck something hard and ungiving. But for the protection of the hardhat that absorbed 80 percent of the blow, he'd have cracked his skull open.
Incredibly, his buoyancy compensator stayed inflated and he floated half-unconscious through a short spill of rapids. One of the lights on his helmet was smashed by the impact and the other one seemed to cast an indistinct red beam. Gratefully, he felt loose stone beneath his feet and saw he was being spun toward shallows leading to a small open space along the shoreline. He swam until his knees scraped the coarse gravel, struggling to loosen the grip of the murderous current. He extended his hands to pull himself over the slippery stones onto the dry shelf. A groan of pain escaped his lips as one of his wrists exploded in agony. At some point after going over the falls, he had broken something there. His wrist was not all that was broken. He'd also cracked two or more ribs on his left side.
The rumbling thunder of the falls sounded far in the distance. Slowly his mind came back on track and he wondered how far he'd been swept by the ungodly torrent. Then, as more of the cobwebs cleared, he remembered Giordino. In desperation he shouted Al's name, his voice echoing through the air chamber, hoping but never really expecting to hear a reply.
"Over here."
The answer didn't come much louder than a whisper, but Pitt heard it as if it came out of a loudspeaker. He rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to get a fix. "Say again."
"I'm only six meters upstream of you," said Giordino. "Can't you see me?"
A red haze seemed to block Pitt's field of vision. He rubbed his eyes and found he could focus them again. He also realized the red haze that had been clouding his sight came from blood that was spilling from a gash in his forehead. Now he could clearly discern Giordino lying on his back a short distance away, half out of the water.
He staggered over to his friend, clutching the left side of his chest in a vain attempt to contain the pain.
He knelt stiffly beside Giordino. "Am I ever glad to see you. I thought you and the Windbag had sailed off without me."
"The remains of our trusty boat were swept downstream."
"Are you badly injured?" Pitt asked.
Giordino smiled gamely, held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. "At least I can still play Carnegie Hall."
"Play what? You can't even carry a tune." Then Pitt's eyes filled with concern. "Is it your back?"
Giordino weakly shook his head. "I stayed with the Windbag and my feet were caught in the lines holding the equipment when she struck bottom. Then she went one way, and I went the other. I think both legs are broken below the knees." He explained his injuries as calmly as if he were describing a pair of flat tires.
Pitt gently felt Giordino's calves as his friend clenched his fists. "Lucky you. Simple breaks, no compound fractures."
Giordino stared up at Pitt. "You look like you went through the spin cycle in a washing machine."
"A few scrapes and bruises," Pitt lied.
"Then why are you talking through clenched teeth?"
Pitt didn't answer. He tried to call up a program on the computer on his arm, but it had been knocked against a rock and was broken. He unbuckled the straps and threw it in the river. "So much for Duncan's data."
"I lost the camera too."
"Tough break. Nobody will be coming this way again soon, certainly not over those falls."
"Any idea how far to the treasure cavern?" asked Giordino.
"A rough guess? Maybe two kilometers."
Giordino looked at him. "You'll have to go it alone."
"You're talking crazy."
"I'll only be a burden." He was no longer smiling. "Forget about me. Get to the treasure cavern."
"I can't leave you here."
"Busted bones or not, I can still float. I'll follow you later."
"Take care when you get there," said Pitt grimly. "You may drift, but you can't escape the current.
Mind you stay close to shore out of the mainstream or you'll be swept beyond recovery."
"No big deal if I am. Our air tanks went with the Wallowing Windbag. If we meet a flooded gallery between here and the treasure chamber longer than we can hold our breath, we'll drown anyway."
"You're supposed to look on the bright side."
Giordino removed a spare flashlight from a belt around one thigh. "You'll need this. Your headlamp looks like it lost a fight with a rock. Come to think of it, your face is a mess too. You're bleeding all over the shredded remains of your nice clean wet suit.'
"Another dip in the river will fix that," said Pitt, attaching the flashlight around the forearm above his broken left wrist where the computer used to be. He dropped his weight belt. "I won't be needing this any longer."
"Aren't you taking your air tank?"
"I don't want to be hindered any more than I have to."
"What if you come to a flooded chamber?"
"I'll have to free dive through as far as I can on my lungs."
"One last favor," said Giordino, holding up the empty harness straps that once supported his air tanks.
"Wrap my legs together to k
Pitt cinched the straps as tight as he dared, conscious of his broken wrist and the need to be gentle.
Except for a sharp intake of breath, Giordino uttered no sound. "Rest up for at least an hour before you follow," Pitt ordered.
"Just get a move on and do what you can to save Loren and Rudi. I'll be along as soon as I'm able."
"I'll keep a watch for you."
"Better find a big net."
Pitt gave Giordino's arm a farewell grip. Then he waded into the river until the current swept him off his feet and carried him into the next cavern.
Giordino watched until Pitt's light vanished around the next bend in the canyon and was lost in the darkness. Two kilometers (1.2 miles), he mused. He hoped to God the final leg of the journey was in airfilled chambers.
Zolar drew a long, relieved breath. Things had gone well, better than he'd expected. The project was winding down. The trailer used for the operations office, the forklift, and the winch had been airlifted away along with most of Colonel Campos's men. Only a small squad of army engineers remained behind to load the final lot onto the army transport helicopter that was parked beside the stolen NUMA craft.
Zolar looked down at the remaining pieces of the golden treasure, which stood in a neat row. He studied the brilliantly gleaming antiquities with an eye toward their ultimate sale price. The artistry and magnificence of the metalwork of the twenty-eight golden statues of Inca warriors was indescribable.
They each stood one meter high and provided a rare glimpse into the creative mastery of Inca artisans.
"A few more and you'd have yourself a chess set," said Oxley, admiring the golden display.
"A pity I won't keep them," replied Zolar sadly. "But I'm afraid I'll have to be content with using the profits from my share of their sale to buy legitimate artifacts for my personal collection."
Fernando Matos hungrily devoured the sight of the golden army with his eyes while he mentally estimated his 2 percent cut of the spoils. "We have nothing that can touch this in our National Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City."
"You can always donate your share," said Oxley sarcastically.
Matos shot him a barbed look and started to say something but was cut off by the approach of Colonel Campos. "Lieutenant Ramos reports from the cavern that no objects remain inside the mountain.
As soon as he and his men arrive from below, they will load the objects. Then I will be on my way to the airstrip to oversee the transshipment."
"Thank you, Colonel," Zolar said politely. He didn't trust Campos as far as he could throw the stone demon. "If you have no objections, the rest of us will join you."
"But of course." Campos looked around the nearly vacated summit. "And your other people?"
Zolar's deepset eyes took on a cold look. "My brother Cyrus and his crew will follow in our helicopter as soon as they tie up a pair of loose ends."
Campos understood. He smiled cynically. "It makes me sick to think about all the bandits running loose to rob and murder foreign visitors."
While they waited for Lieutenant Ramos and his squad to exit the passageway and load the artifacts, Matos walked over and inspected the stone demon. He reached out and laid his hand on the neck and was surprised at the coolness of the stone after it had been absorbing the sun's rays all day. Abruptly, he jerked his hand back. It felt as if the cold stone had suddenly turned pliant and slimy like the scaly skin of a fish.
He stepped back, startled, and half spun around to hurry away. At that instant he saw a human head rising over the edge of the sharp drop in front of the demon. As a man who grew up in a family of university instructors, he did not believe in superstition and folklore. Matos stood frozen more out of curiosity than fright.
The head rose and was seen to be attached to the body of a man who wearily climbed onto the surface of the summit. Then the intruder stood unsteadily for a moment and aimed an old rifle at Matos.
Yuma had lain on a ledge for nearly a full minute, catching his breath and waiting for his heart to slow.
When he lifted his head over the rim, he saw a strange looking little man with a bald head and huge glasses, incongruously dressed in a business suit with shirt and tie, staring back at him. To Yuma, the man reminded him of the government officials who passed through the Montolo village once a year, promising aid in the form of fertilizer, feed and grain, and money, but went on their way and never delivered. After climbing over the rim of the slope he also spotted a group of men standing by the army helicopter 30
meters (100 feet) away. They did not notice him. He had planned the climb to terminate behind the great stone demon out of sight of anyone. Except Matos, who unfortunately happened to be standing nearby.
He pointed his worn and scarred old Winchester at the man and spoke softly. "Do not make a sound or you die."
Yuma did not have to look back to confirm that the first of his neighbors and relatives were scrambling onto the mountaintop. He realized that he desperately needed another minute for all of his tiny force to reach high ground. If the man in front of him gave the alarm, all surprise would be lost and the rest of his people would be caught in an exposed position on the mountainside. He had to stall somehow.
Matters were made even worse by the sudden appearance of an officer and a squad of army engineers who walked from a deep fissure in the rock. They looked neither left nor right and headed straight toward what appeared to Yuma as a staggered row of short, golden men.
At seeing the approaching engineers, the helicopter pilot started up his engines and set them on idle and engaged the twin rotors of the big transport.
Beside the stone demon, Matos slowly raised his hands.
"Put your hands down!" Yuma hissed.
Matos did as he was ordered. "How did you get through our security?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"
"This is my people's sacred ground," Yuma answered quietly. "You are defiling it with your greed."
For every few seconds gained, two more Montolos climbed over the rim of the ledge behind Yuma and formed a group out of sight behind the demon. They had come this far without causing injury or death, and Yuma hated to start now.
"Walk back toward me," he ordered Matos. "Stand next to the demon."
There was a wild, crazed look in Matos's eyes. His lust for golden wealth slowly began to short-circuit his fear. His share would make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. He couldn't give it up because of a band of superstitious Indians. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the engineers closing with the helicopter. Dread of losing his dreams created an agonizing knot in his stomach.
Yuma could see it coming. He was losing the man in the suit. "You want gold?" said Yuma. "Take it and leave our mountain."
As he saw more men materializing behind Yuma, Matos finally snapped. He turned and began to run, shouting, "Intruders! Shoot them!"
Without lifting his gun and aiming, Yuma fired from the hip, his shot striking Matos in the knee. The bureaucrat jerked sideways, his glasses flew off his head, and he sprawled heavily on his chest. He rolled over on his back, raising his leg and clutching his knee with both hands.
Yuma's relatives and neighbors, guns at the ready, fanned out like ghosts in a cemetery as they encircled the helicopter. Lieutenant Ramos, no fool he, instantly took in the situation. His men were engineers and not infantrymen and carried no weapons. He immediately raised his hands in surrender and shouted to his small squad to do likewise.
Zolar swore loudly. "Where in hell did these Indians come from?"
"No time to reason why," snapped Oxley. "We're pulling out."
He jumped through the cargo hatch and pulled Zolar in after him.
"The gold warriors!" Zolar protested. "They're not loaded."
"Forget them."
"No!" Zolar resisted.
"You damn fool. Can't you see, those men are armed. The army engineers can't help us." He turned and yelled to the pilot of the helicopter. "Lift of
Colonel Campos was slower than the others to react. He stupidly ordered Lieutenant Ramos and his men to resist. "Attack them!" he cried.
Ramos stared at him. "With what, Colonel, our bare hands?"
Yuma and his tribal members were only 10 meters (33 feet) from the helicopter now. So far only one shot had been fired. The sight of the sun glinting off the golden warriors momentarily stunned the Montolos. The only pure gold object any of them had ever seen was a small chalice on the altar of the little mission church in the nearby village of Ilano Colorado.
Dust began to swirl as the pilot applied the throttles and the rotor blades of the helicopter furiously beat the air. The wheels were lifting off the mountain's summit when Campos finally realized discretion was the better part of greed. He ran four steps and leaped toward the cargo door at the urging of Charles Oxley who reached out for him.
At that instant the helicopter lurched sharply upward. Campos's upraised hands caught empty air. His momentum carried him under the helicopter and off the edge of the cliff as if he'd taken a running dive into water. Oxley watched the colonel's body grow smaller and smaller as it turned end over end before smashing onto the rocks far below.
"Good Christ," gasped Oxley.
Zolar, grimly hanging on to a strap inside the cargo bay, did not witness Campos's plunge to the base of the mountain. His concerns were elsewhere. "Cyrus is still down in the cavern."
"He's with Amaru and his men. Not to worry. Their automatic weapons are more than a match for a few Indians carrying hunting rifles and shotguns. They'll leave in the last helicopter still on the mountain."
Only then did it occur to Zolar that someone was missing. "Where's Matos and the colonel?"
"The Indians shot Matos and Campos made his move too late."
"He stayed on Cerro el Capirote?"