Lost Empire by Clive Cussler
Having listened to the steady put-put-put of the dhow’s engine for the last hour, the sudden silence was jarring. They stood still for half a minute, listening, until the jungle around them slowly came back to life with a cacophony of squawks and buzzes.
Remi secured the bowline to one of the tree trunks, then headed aft to join Sam on the afterdeck. “What’s the plan?” she asked.
“We’re assuming the bell is still aboard the Njiwa. That’s the best-case scenario. With any luck, we won’t have to set foot on the island itself. Either way, we have to wait for nightfall. For now, I say we do a little reconnaissance and have a little picnic.”
“Reconnaissance and a picnic,” Remi repeated with a smile. “Every woman’s dream date.”
UNLIKE ITS LARGER ALTER EGO, Little Sukuti Island was all mangrove swamp and jungle, save a lone jagged peak that, on the vertical, was no more than five hundred feet above the ocean’s surface, but, as Sam and Remi had learned many times, a five-hundred-foot ascent on rough winding trails could turn into a three- or four-hour hike.
By ten A.M., already sweating profusely and covered in bug bites and mud, they emerged from the swamp and pushed their way into the jungle. With Sam in the lead, they pushed north until they came across what they were looking for: a stream. Water meant animals and animals meant game trails. It took them only a few minutes to find one heading northwest toward the island’s summit. Shortly before one in the afternoon, they broke free of the jungle and found themselves at the foot of the escarpment.
“That’s a relief,” Remi said, staring upward.
The rock face was manageable, fifty feet tall, no steeper than fifty degrees, and with plenty of crags and cracks they could use for foot-and handholds. After a short water break, they headed upward and were soon nestled in a little rock alcove beneath the peak. They each pulled a pair of binoculars from their packs, rose up, and looked around.
“Thar she blows,” Sam muttered.
A mile away and a hundred feet below them was Okafor’s home. Painted a butter yellow with stark white trim, it sat in a near-perfect circular clearing of reddish brown dirt. At this distance they could make out details they’d missed from the air. As Sam had predicted, a trio of men in green coveralls were working along the eastern side of the grounds, two hacking at the encroaching foliage with machetes, the third mowing a strip of lawn. The villa itself was massive, easily fifteen thousand square feet, with wraparound balconies on each floor. At the rear of the property was what looked like a radio antenna/ satellite TV tower.
“Do you see that?” Remi asked.
“What?”
“On the roof, eastern corner.”
Sam pointed his binoculars where Remi had indicated and saw a pair of Big Eyes naval binoculars mounted on a tripod.
“Well,” Sam said, “the bad news is to the southwest they can see anything coming ten miles away. You see the coaxial cable attached to the housing?”
“I see it.”
“It’s for remote control and monitoring, I’m guessing. Probably from a control room in the house. The good news is, I don’t think they’re night-vision capable.”
They continued panning their binoculars, moving down the slope to the helicopter pad. At the edge of the white stone perimeter a lone man in khaki coveralls sat in a lawn chair; leaning against his left thigh was an AK-74 assault rifle.
“He’s asleep,” Remi said.
“That, and the missing helicopter tell us the boss is away.” Sam panned his binoculars again. After a moment he said, “I’ve got movement on the Njiwa.”
“I see it,” Remi replied. “There’s a familiar face.”
There was no mistaking Itzli Rivera’s gaunt, ropy frame and sunken face. He stood on the yacht’s foredeck, a satellite phone to his ear. After a minute of listening he nodded, checked his watch, said something into the handset, and disconnected. He turned aft, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted something. Ten seconds later Nochtli and Yaotl came jogging through the arch on the port-side weather deck and stopped before Rivera, who spoke to them for a few minutes before they rushed off again.
“Looked like Rivera was passing on some orders from on high. Let’s hope it’s about the bell.”
“Our bell,” Remi corrected him with a smile.
“I like the way you think. Let’s do a guard count.”
They spent the next fifteen minutes doing just this and came up with four: one at the helicopter pad, one patrolling the road to the dock, and two strolling around the villa’s perimeter. Unless they missed someone, it appeared no guards were watching the island’s approaches.
“We can’t forget Rivera and the other two stooges,” Sam said. “They’re probably staying aboard the boat. If so, we might have to find a way to get them off.”
“That won’t be easy. Based on how much trouble they’ve gone to get the bell, they’re probably sleeping beside it.”
THEY SPENT THE REMAINDER of the afternoon drawing a detailed map of the island and enjoying their ersatz picnic of fruit, nuts, and bottled water. Shortly after five, they heard a faint chopping sound to the east. They focused their binoculars, and soon enough the sound took the shape of a helicopter. Ambonisye Okafor’s Eurocopter EC135, jet-black with tinted windows, swept over the island and did a slow circuit, as though the man aboard were surveying his kingdom, before stopping in a hover over the pad and touching down. The guard on duty was already standing at attention, spine erect, an AK-74 held at port arms. As the rotors spooled down, the Eurocopter’s side door opened and out stepped a tall, lean African man in a crisp white suit and mirrored sunglasses.
“Fun’s over,” Sam said. “Dad’s home.”
“Clearly our host went to the Idi Amin school of fashion,” Remi said. “I’d be willing to bet his closet is packed with clones of that outfit.”
Sam smiled behind his binoculars. “Then again, who’s going to risk telling him he’s a cliché?”
Okafor strode across the pad and snapped off a salute to the guard. As he reached the path, an electric golf cart pulled to a stop before him. He climbed in, and the cart headed up the hill toward the villa.
Sam said, “Now we’ll see if Okafor’s return stirs up any action.”
After another ten minutes the cart returned down the hill, turned onto the dock road, and stopped beside the Njiwa. Rivera strode down the gangplank and got into the passenger seat, and the cart returned to the villa, where Rivera disappeared inside. He emerged twenty minutes later, and the golf cart returned him to the Njiwa. Sam and Remi kept their focus on the yacht. Five minutes passed, then ten, then twenty. There was no movement on the decks; no reaction to Rivera’s meeting with Okafor.
“That was underwhelming,” Remi said, looking sideways at Sam. “I can see the gears turning in your head. You have a plan of attack?”
Over the years Sam’s and Remi’s complementary personalities had molded the planning of the dicier parts of their adventures: Sam would develop the plan, and Remi would play devil’s advocate, running the plan through her steel-trap mind, until they decided it workable and would minimize the likelihood that they’d find themselves in over their heads. So far, the system had worked well, though the water frequently reached their chins.
“Almost,” Sam said. He lowered his binoculars and checked his watch. “We better start back down. It’ll be nightfall in four hours.”
THE RETURN LEG of the hike was easier going, partially because they weren’t fighting gravity and partially because they’d already blazed the trail. Back at sea level, they circumnavigated the mangrove swamp to the south, turned north again at the beach, then swam the last quarter mile. They were nearing the mouth of the cove when Remi stopped swimming and said, “Quiet. Listen.”
Sam heard it a few moments later, the faint rumble of a marine engine somewhere to their right. They turned to see a Rinker speedboat coming around the headland a hundred yards away. One man was behind the wheel; a second stood behind him, scanning the
“Deep breath!” Sam said to Remi.
Together they gulped a lungful of air, then curled under the water and dove. Six feet beneath the surface they leveled off and began stroking toward the cove. Arm outstretched, Sam reached the bank a few seconds before Remi. He curled his fingers around the roots jutting from the mud, then turned, grabbed Remi’s hand, and pulled her in. Sam pointed above their heads where a tangle of dead brush floated on the surface. Together they let themselves float up. They broke into the air and looked around.
“You hear the engine?” Sam whispered in Remi’s ear.
“No . . . Wait, there they are.”
Sam looked in the direction of Remi’s nod. Through the twigs he could see the Rinker sitting still in the water about fifty feet away. The engine coughed once, sputtered, then went dead. The driver tried again but got the same result. He pounded his fist on the wheel. His partner stepped to the stern, knelt down, and lifted the engine hatch.
“Engine trouble,” Sam whispered. “They’ll move on soon.”
It was either that, they both knew, or these two would have to call for a tow, which meant Sam and Remi wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
“Cross fingers,” Remi replied.
Aboard the Rinker, the second man turned and said something to the driver, who tried the engine again. It coughed and died.
“Spark plug,” Sam muttered. In the corner of his eye he saw Remi’s head move, slowly leaning backward until her face was pointing upward. Sam slowly turned his head, looked at her, and followed her gaze. He found himself staring into a pair of beady brown eyes. Not six inches away, the eyes blinked once, then narrowed slightly. It took a moment for Sam to realize what he was seeing.
“Monkey,” he whispered to Remi.
“Yes, Sam, I noticed.”
“Capuchin?”
“Colobus, I think. Juvenile.”
From the direction of the Rinker they heard the engine turn over again. This time it caught, sputtered, then settled into a steady idle. Above them, the colobus jerked its head up at the noise, its tiny hands clamping down on the branches. It looked back down at Sam and Remi.
Remi cooed, “Easy, little—”
The colobus opened its mouth and began shrieking and shaking the branches so wildly that leaves rained down on them.
Sam lowered his head and peered through the brush pile. Aboard the Rinker, both men were standing up, rifles at the shoulder, muzzles aimed in their direction. Suddenly a crack. One of the muzzles flashed. The bullet zipped through the foliage above their heads. The colobus shrieked louder and flailed at the branches. Sam groped underwater, found Remi’s hand, squeezed it.
She whispered, “Are they—”
“I don’t think so. They’re looking for lunch.”
Crack! More shrieking and shaking.
Silence.
Sam could hear the colobus’s hands and feet pattering away.
“They’re turning our way,” Sam whispered. “Get ready for a deep breath.”
Through the brush they watched as the Rinker’s bow came around until it was pointed directly at them. It began gliding forward, slowly closing the gap. The second man was now standing beside the driver, rifle braced on the windshield’s frame.
“Wait,” Sam rasped. “Wait . . .” When the Rinker was fifteen feet away he said, “Deep breath . . . under.”
They submerged together, each one clawing for handholds as they dragged themselves back first down the bank. When their feet sunk into the mud, they craned their necks back. On the surface, the Rinker’s bow was shoving its way into the brush pile. Sam and Remi heard muffled voices, then the cracking of branches. Leaves fluttered down and dotted the surface.
Finally, after nearly a minute, the Rinker’s propeller reversed and began churning. The boat began backing out. Sam and Remi waited until the bow swung around and the Rinker began moving away before resurfacing. They caught their breath and watched as the boat disappeared around the bend.
“They didn’t get him, did they?” Remi asked.
Sam turned and smiled at her. “That’s my girl. Animal lover until the end. No, he got away. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 17
SUKUTI ISLAND
“THERE!” REMI CALLED FROM THE BOW. “ALL STOP! BACK SLOW.”
With his view blocked by the mast, Sam throttled to neutral, let the dhow drift a bit, then reversed and eased backward around the knob of shoreline they’d been following.
“That’s good,” she called. “They’re about a mile ahead of us. Another ten minutes and they’ll make the turn north.”
Forty minutes earlier, after beaching their dhow in the cove, they’d wasted no time in getting under way. Sam and Remi hoped the Rinker was on a route that would take it along Sukuti’s southern coast and back to Okafor’s docks, as their planned approach would take them around the northern side of the island. They were anxious to reach the relative safety of the inlet that separated Little Sukuti from Big Sukuti—providing that, too, wasn’t on the Rinker’s route.
While a straight shot along the southern coast would have been the quickest route to the docks, it would also have left them exposed to any observant eyes and ears. By following the inlet north and shadowing the coast around to the western side, they would be invisible to anyone not standing atop the escarpment.
They sat in silence, watching the sun on its slow downward arc to the horizon, until finally Remi checked her watch and said, “Slow ahead.”
Sam started the engines and goosed the dhow’s throttle, easing them from behind cover. On the bow, Remi lay on her belly with the binoculars trained along the coast.
“They’re gone,” she said. “We’re clear.”
Sam shoved the throttle forward, and the dhow surged ahead. Another ten minutes passed. Remi called out: “There it is.”
Sam leaned sideways over the rail until he could see, a couple hundred yards away, the mouth of the inlet. No more than fifty feet wide, the channel looked as much like a tunnel as it did an inlet, its banks overgrown with jungle and trees arcing over the water to form an impenetrable canopy, save a patch of ten-foot-wide sky down the center.
Sam eased the dhow’s wheel to starboard. The bow came about.
Remi walked aft, ducked under the boom, and dropped to the deck beside Sam. “Jungle Cruise,” she said.
“Pardon?”
“The inlet. Remember the Disney World Jungle Cruise? That’s what this reminds me of.”
Sam chuckled. “My favorite ride as a kid.”
“Sam, it’s still your favorite ride.”
“True.”
Within minutes they’d closed to within a hundred yards of the inlet’s mouth. They felt the dhow shudder beneath their feet, and it leapt ahead, picking up five knots in as many seconds.
“Good call,” Remi said to her husband.
Having already experienced the power of the current off Zanzibar, Sam had earlier worried about similar conditions here. Positioned as it was along the coast, with the tide surging from the south, the mouth of the inlet was a hydraulic vacuum, sucking ocean in from the south and spitting it out to the north.
Sam switched off the engine to save gas and gripped the wheel tighter. He said, “The good news is, we probably don’t have to worry about running aground. This current’s digging a pretty deep trench in there.”
The dhow bucked to the side and the stern slipped sideways. Sam corrected first to starboard, then to port, and the bow realigned on the mouth of the inlet. With both hands clamped on the rail, Remi was leaning over the side, a smile on her face, auburn hair streaming behind her.
“How fast are we going?” she called.
“Ten, twelve knots,” Sam replied, laughing. This close to the water’s surface it felt much faster. “Better make your way forward. I’m going to need your eyes.”
“Aye, captain.” She made her way to the bow. “Fifty yards to go,” sh
To starboard Sam watched a four-foot wave crash over an exposed sandbar. “Surge coming,” he warned Remi and turned the wheel a few degrees to meet it. The wave hit them on the starboard bow, pushing the dhow sideways. The bow started to swing around off course. Sam muscled the wheel hard to starboard, compensating until the surge passed and the bow found the line again.
“Looking good. Steady on,” Remi called. “Twenty yards.”
Sam leaned over the starboard rail and looked down. The indigo water was thirty to forty feet deep, but six feet to the right he could see the white sand bottom through the turquoise water. He leaned to port and saw the same.
“We haven’t got much room to spare,” Sam called forward. “How does it look ahead?”
“Narrower still. Want a little drag?”
“Sure.”
Remi shimmied around on her belly, retrieved the Danforth anchor from its mount, tossed it over the bow, and let the line stream between her hands until she felt it skipping along the bottom. She hauled in a few inches of line and secured it to the pulpit rail. The dhow began slowing until they were moving in a jerk-and-surge fashion.
“Ten yards,” Remi called.
And then, as if the sun had suddenly been eclipsed, the dhow slipped inside the inlet. To the left and right, walls of green closed in around them; above, a ragged ribbon of blue sky. Sam looked aft and felt a surge of vertigo as the entrance to the inlet seemed to close like an iris door on a spaceship.
“Turn coming up,” Remi called. “Forty-five degrees to starboard.”
Sam faced forward again. “Ready when you are.”
“Three . . . two . . . one . . .Turn!”
Sam gave the wheel a quarter spin to port and held it.
“Starboard turn!” Remi shouted.
Sam spun the wheel again.
“Hold it there,” Remi ordered. A few seconds passed. “Okay, start easing back to port. Keep going . . . more . . . Good. Steady on.”
As if on cue, the current died away until the dhow was skimming ahead at a walking pace. The inlet widened out slightly, leaving fifteen feet on both beams.