Текст книги "Inca Gold"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 34 страниц)

    "The Zolars are Americans," Loren reminded her.

    Micki shrugged. "A mere technicality. They represent what is perhaps the largest art theft and smuggling ring in history. The Zolars are world-class sharks. Why should I have to tell you? You've experienced their brutality firsthand. By leaving their bones to bleach in the Sonoran Desert, Henry and I figure to save the American taxpayers millions of dollars that would be spent on a complicated and time-consuming investigation into their criminal activities. And then there are the court and prison costs if they're caught and convicted."

    "And once a portion of the treasure is in your hands?" asked Gunn. "What then?"

    Micki smiled like a wily shrew. "I'll send you a postcard from whatever part of the world we're in at the time and let you know how we're spending it."

    A small army of soldiers set up a command post and sealed off the desert for two miles around the base of Cerro el Capirote. No one was allowed in or out. The mountain's peak had become a staging area with all treasure recovery operations conducted from the air. Pitt's stolen NUMA helicopter, repainted with Zolar International colors, lifted into a clear sky and dipped on a course back to the hacienda. A few minutes later, a heavy Mexican army transport helicopter hovered and settled down. A detachment of military engineers in desert combat fatigues jumped to the ground, opened the rear cargo door and began unloading a small forklift, coils of cable, and a large winch.

    Officials of the state of Sonora who were on the Zolars' payroll had approved all the necessary licenses and permits within twenty-four hours, a process that would normally have taken months and perhaps years. The Zolars had promised to fund new schools, roads, and a hospital. Their cash had greased the palms of the local bureaucracy and eliminated the usual rivers of red tape. Full cooperation was given by an unwitting Mexican government misled by corrupt bureaucrats. Joseph Zolar's request for a contingent of engineers from a military base on the Baja Peninsula was quickly approved. Under the terms of a swiftly drawn up contract with the Ministry of the Treasury, the Zolars were entitled to 25 percent of the treasure. The rest was to be deposited with the national court in Mexico City.

    The only problem with the agreement was that the Zolars had no intention of keeping their end of the bargain. They weren't about to split the treasure with anyone.

    Once the golden chain and the bulk of the treasure had been hauled to the top of the mountain, a covert operation was created to move the hoard under cover of darkness to a remote military airstrip near the great sand dunes of the Altar Desert just south of the Arizona border. There, it would be loaded aboard a commercial jet transport, painted with the markings and colors of a major airline company, and then flown to a secret distribution facility owned by the Zolars in the small city of Nador on the north coast of Morocco.

    Everyone had been ferried from the hacienda to the mountaintop as soon as it became daylight. No personal effects were left behind. Only Zolar's jetliner remained, parked on the hacienda's airstrip, ready for takeoff on a moment's notice.

    Loren and Rudi were released from their prison and sent over later the same morning. Ignoring Sarason's orders not to communicate with the hostages, Micki Moore had compassionately tended to their cuts and bruises and made sure they were fed a decent meal. Since there was little chance they could escape by climbing down the rocky walls of the mountain, no one guarded them and they were left on their own to wander about as they pleased.

    Oxley quickly discovered the small aperture leading inside the mountain and wasted no time in directing a military work crew to enlarge it. He stayed behind to oversee the equipment staging while Zolar, Sarason, and the Moores set off down the passageway followed by a squad of engineers, who carried portable fluorescent lights.

    When they reached the second demon, Micki lovingly touched its eyes, just as Shannon Kelsey had done before her. She sighed. "A marvelous piece of work."

    "Beautifully preserved," Henry Moore agreed.

    "It will have to be destroyed," said Sarason indifferently.

    "What are you talking about?" demanded Moore.

    "We can't move it. The ugly beast fills up most of the tunnel. There is no way we can drag Huascar's chain over, around, or between its legs."

    Micki's face went tense with shock. "You can't destroy a masterwork of antiquity."

    "We can and we will," Zolar said, backing his brother. "I agree it's unfortunate. But we don't have time for archaeological zealotry. The sculpture has to go."

    Moore's pained expression slowly turned hard, and he looked at his wife and nodded. "Sacrifices must be made."

    Micki understood. If they were to seize enough of the golden riches to keep them in luxury for the rest of their lives, they would have to close their eyes to the demolition of the demon.

    They pushed on as Sarason lagged behind and ordered the engineers to place a charge of explosives under the demon. "Be careful," he warned them in Spanish. "Use a small charge. We don't want to cause a cave-in."

    Zolar was amazed at the Moores' vast energy and enthusiasm after they encountered the crypt of the treasure guardians. If left on their own, they would have spent a week studying the mummies and the burial ornaments before pushing on to the treasure chamber.

    "Let's keep going," said Zolar impatiently. "You can nose around the dead later."

    Reluctantly, the Moores continued into the guardians' living quarters, lingering only a few minutes before Sarason rejoined his brother and urged them onward.

    The sudden sight of the guardian encased in calcite crystals shocked and stunned all of them, as it had Pitt and his group. Henry Moore peered intently through the translucent sarcophagus.

    "An ancient Chachapoya," he murmured as if standing before a crucifix. "Preserved as he died. This is an unbelievable discovery."

    "He must have been a noble warrior of very high status," said Micki in awe.

    "A logical conclusion, my dear. This man had to be very powerful to bear the responsibility of guarding an immense royal treasure."

    "What do you think he's worth?" asked Sarason.

    Moore turned and scowled at him. "You can't set a price on such an extraordinary object. As a window to the past, he is priceless."

    "I know a collector who would give five million dollars for him," said Zolar, as if he were appraising a Ming vase.

    "The Chachapoya warrior belongs to science," Moore lashed back, his anger choking him. "He is a visible link to the past and belongs in a museum, not in the living room of some morally corrupt gatherer of stolen artifacts."

    Zolar threw Moore an insidious look. "All right, Professor, he's yours for your share of the gold."

    Moore looked agonized. His professional training as a scientist fought a war with his greed. He felt dirtied and ashamed now that he realized that Huascar's legacy went beyond mere wealth. He was overcome with regret that he was dealing with unscrupulous scum. He gripped his wife's hand, knowing without doubt she felt the same. "If that's what it takes. You've got yourself a deal."

    Zolar laughed. "Now that's settled. Can we please proceed and find what we came here for?"

    A few minutes later, they stood in a shoulder-to-shoulder line on the edge of the subterranean riverbank and stared mesmerized at the array of gold, highlighted by the portable fluorescent lamps carried by the military engineers. All they saw was the treasure. The sight of a river flowing through the bowels of the earth seemed insignificant.

    "Spectacular," whispered Zolar. "I can't believe I'm looking at so much gold."

    "This easily exceeds the treasures of King Tut's tomb," said Moore.

    "How magnificent," said Micki, clutching her husband's arm. "This has to be the richest cache in all the Americas."

    Sarason's amazement quickly wore off. "Very clever of those ancient bastards," he charged. "Storing the treasure on an island surrounded by a strong current makes recovery doubly complicated."

    "Yes, but we've got cables and winches," said Moore.

    INCA GOLD

    "Think of the difficulty they had in moving all that gold over there with nothing but hemp rope and muscle."

    Micki spied a golden monkey crouched on a pedestal. "That's odd."

    Zolar looked at her. "What's odd?"

    She stepped closer to the monkey and its pedestal which was lying on its side. "Why would this piece still be on this bank of the river?"

    "Yes, it does seem strange this object wasn't placed with the others," said Moore. "It almost looks as if it was thrown here."

    Sarason pointed to gouges in the sand and calcium crystals beside the riverbank. "I'd say it was dragged off the island."

    "It has writing scratched on it," said Moore.

    "Can you decipher anything?" asked Zolar.

    "Doesn't need deciphering. The markings are in English."

    Sarason and Zolar stared at him with the expressions of Wall Street bankers walking along the sidewalk and being asked by a homeless derelict if they could spare fifty thousand dollars. "No jokes, Professor," said Zolar.

    "I'm dead serious. Somebody engraved a message into the soft gold on the bottom of the pedestal, quite recently by the looks of it."

    "What does it say?"

    Moore motioned for an engineer to aim his lamp at the monkey's pedestal, adjusted his glasses and began reading aloud.

Welcome members of the Solpemachaco to the underground thieves and plunderers annual convention.

If you have any ambitions in life other than the acquisition of stolen loot, you have come to the right place.

Be our guests and take only the objects you can use.

Your congenial sponsors,

Dr. Shannon Kelsey, Miles Rodgers, Al Giordino, & Dirk Pitt.

There was a moment of sober realization, and then Zolar snarled at his brother. "What in hell is going on here? What kind of foolish trick is this?"

    Sarason's mouth was pinched in a bitter line. "Pitt admitted leading us to the demon," he answered reluctantly, "but he said nothing of entering the mountain and laying eyes on the treasure."

    "Generous with his information, wasn't he? Why didn't you tell me this?"

    Sarason shrugged. "He's dead. I didn't think it mattered."

    Micki turned to her husband. "I know Dr. Kelsey. I met her at an archaeology conference in San Antonio. She has a splendid reputation as an expert on Andean cultures."

    Moore nodded. "Yes, I'm familiar with her work." He stared at Sarason. "You led us to believe Congresswoman Smith and the men from NUMA were merely on a treasure hunt. You said nothing of involvement by professional archaeologists."

    "Does it make any difference?"

    "Something is going on beyond your control," warned Moore. He looked as if he was enjoying the Zolars' confusion. "If I were you, I'd get the gold out of here as fast as possible."

    His words were punctuated by a muffled explosion far up into the passageway.

    "We have nothing to fear so long as Pitt is dead," Sarason kept insisting. "What you see here was done before Amaru put a stop to him." But he was damp with cold sweat. Pitt's mocking words rang in his ears, "You've been set up, pal."

    Zolar's features slowly altered. The mouth tightened and the set of the jaw seemed to recede, the eyes became apprehensive. "Nobody discovers a treasure on the magnitude of this one, leaves behind a ridiculous message, and then walks away from it. These people have a method to their madness, and I for one would like to know their plan."

    "Any man who stands in our way before the treasure is safely off the mountain will be destroyed," Sarason shouted at his brother. "That is a promise."

    The words came forcefully, with the ring of a bullet resistant threat. They all believed him. Except Micki Moore.

    She was the only one standing close enough to see his lips quiver.

    Bureaucrats from around the world looked the same, Pitt thought. The fabricated meaningless smile betrayed by the patronizing look in the eyes. They must have all gone to the same school and memorized the same canned speech of evasive phrases. This one was bald, wore thick hornrimmed glasses, and had a black moustache with each bristle exactingly trimmed.

    A tall, complacent man, whose profile and haughtiness reminded the Americans seated around the conference room of a Spanish conquistador, Fernando Matos was the very essence of a condescending, fence-and-dodge bureaucrat. He stared at the Americans in the Customs building less than 100 meters (328 feet) from the international border.

    Admiral James Sandecker, who had arrived from Washington shortly after Gaskill and Ragsdale flew in from Galveston, stared back and said nothing. Shannon, Rodgers, and Giordino were relegated to chairs against one wall while Pitt sat at Sandecker's right. They left the talking to the chief Customs agent of the region, Curtis Starger.

    A veteran of sixteen years with the service, Starger had been around the Horn enough times to have seen it all. He was a trim, handsome man with sharp features and blond hair. He looked more like an aging lifeguard on a San Diego beach than a hardened agent who gazed at Matos with an expression that could scorch asbestos. After the introductions were made, he launched his attack.

    "I'll skip the niceties, Mr. Matos. On matters such as this I'm used to dealing with your elite law enforcement agents, especially Inspector Granados and the chief of your Northern Mexico Investigative Division, Sefior Rojas. I wish you would explain, sir, why a midlevel official from an obscure office of the National Affairs Department was sent to brief us on the situation. I get the feeling that your national government in Mexico City is as much in the dark as we are."

    Matos made a helpless gesture with his hands. His eyes never blinked, and his smile remained fixed. If he felt insulted, it didn't show. "Inspector Granados is working on a case in Hermosillo and Sefior Rojas was taken ill."

    "Sorry to hear it," Starger grunted insincerely.

    "If they were not indisposed or on duties elsewhere, I'm certain they would have been happy to consult with you. I share your frustration. But I assure you, my government will do everything in its power to cooperate on this matter."

    "The United States Attorney's Office has reason to believe that three men going under the names of Joseph Zolar, Charles Oxley, and Cyrus Sarason, all brothers, are conducting a massive international operation dealing in stolen art, smuggled artifacts, and art forgery. We also have reason to believe they have abducted one of our respected congressional legislators and an official of our most prestigious marine science agency."

    Matos smiled blandly behind his bureaucratic defenses. "Utterly ridiculous. As you very well know, gentlemen, after your fruitless raid on the Zolars' facilities in Texas, their reputation remains untarnished."

    Gaskill smiled wryly at Ragsdale. "News travels fast."

    "These men you seem intent on persecuting have violated no laws in Mexico. We have no legal cause to investigate them."

    "What are you doing about securing the release of Congresswoman Smith and Deputy Director Gunn?"

    "Our finest investigative police teams are working on the case," Matos assured him. "My superiors have already made arrangements to pay the ransom demands. And I can guarantee it is only a question of a few hours before the bandits responsible for this travesty are captured and your people rescued unharmed."

    "Our sources claim the Zolars are the criminals who are responsible."

    Matos shook his head. "No, no, the evidence proves a gang of thieving bandits is behind the abduction."

    Pitt joined in the fray. "Speaking of abductions, what about the crew of the ferryboat? Where did they disappear to?"

    Matos gazed at Pitt contemptuously. "That is of no importance here. As a matter of record, our police officials have four signed statements naming you as the instigator of this plot."

    Resentment surged through Pitt. The Zolars had cunningly planned every contingency, but they had either ignored the fact the crew of the Alhambra were not dead or Amaru had botched the job and lied. Padilla and his men must have made shore and been put under wraps by the local police.

    "Were your investigators as thoughtful in providing me with a motive?" asked Pitt.

    "Motives do not concern me, Mr. Pitt. I rely on evidence. But since you brought it up, the crew claims you killed Congresswoman Smith and Rudi Gunn to gain the location of the treasure."

    "Your police officials have Alzheimer's disease if they swallow that," snapped Giordino.

    "Evidence is evidence," Matos said smoothly. "As an official of the government I must operate within strict legal parameters."

    Pitt took the ridiculous accusation in stride and sneaked in from the side. "Tell me, Sefior Matos, what percentage of the gold will you take as your share?"

    "Five–" Matos caught himself too late.

    "Were you about to say five percent, sir?" Starger asked softly.

    Matos tilted his head and shrugged. "I was about to say nothing of the sort."

    "I'd say your superiors have turned a blind eye to a deep conspiracy," said Sandecker.

    "There is no conspiracy, Admiral. I'll take an oath on

    "What you're broadcasting," said Gaskill, leaning across the table, "is that officials of the Sonoran State government have struck a deal with the Zolars to keep the Peruvian treasure."

    Matos lifted a hand. "The Peruvians have no legal claim. All artifacts found on Mexican soil belong to our people–"

    "They belong to the people of Peru," Shannon interrupted, her face flushed with anger. "If your government had any sense of decency, they would invite the Peruvians to at least share in it."

    "Affairs between nations do not work that way, Dr. Kelsey," replied Matos.

    "How would you like it if Montezuma's lost golden treasure turned up in the Andes?"

    "I'm not in a position to judge outlandish events," Matos answered imperviously. "Besides, rumors of the treasure are greatly exaggerated. Its true value is really of little consequence."

    Shannon looked flabbergasted. "What are you saying? I saw Huascar's treasure with my own eyes. If anything, it's far more substantial than anyone thought. I put its potential value at just under a billion dollars."

    "The Zolars are respected dealers who have a worldwide reputation for accurately appraising art and antiquities. Their evaluation of the treasure does not exceed thirty million."

    "Mister," Shannon snapped in cold fury, "I'll match my credentials against theirs any day of the week in appraising artifacts of ancient Peruvian cultures. I'll put it to you in plain language. The Zolars are full of crap."

    "Your word against theirs," Matos said calmly.

    "For a small treasure trove," said Ragsdale, "they appear to be mounting a massive recovery effort."

    "Five or ten laborers to carry the gold out of the cavern. No more."

    "Would you like to see reconnaissance satellite photos that show the top of Cerro el Capirote looking like an anthill with an army of men and helicopters crawling all over it?"

    Matos sat silently, as if he hadn't heard a word.

    "And the Zolars' payoff?" asked Starger. "Are you allowing them to remove artifacts from the country?"

    "Their efforts on behalf of the people of Sonora will not go unappreciated. They will be compensated."

    It was an obvious fish story and nobody in the room bought it.

    Admiral Sandecker was the highest American official in the room. He stared at Matos and gave him a disarming smile. "I will be meeting with our nation's President tomorrow morning. At that time I will brief him on the alarming events occurring in our neighbor to the south, and inform him that your law enforcement officials are dragging their feet on the investigation and throwing up a smoke screen on the kidnapping of our high-level representatives. I need not remind you, Senor Matos, the free trade agreement is coming up for review by Congress. When our representatives are informed of your callous treatment of one of their colleagues, and how you cooperate with criminals dealing in stolen and smuggled art, they may find it difficult to continue our mutual trade relations. In short, senor, your President wild have a major scandal on his hands."

    Matos's eyes behind the glasses were suddenly stricken. "There is no need for so strong a response over a minor disagreement between our two countries."

    Pitt noticed thin beads of perspiration on the Mexican official's head. He turned to his boss from NUMA. "I'm hardly an expert on executive politics, Admiral, but what do you want to bet the President of Mexico and his cabinet have not been informed of the true situation?"

    "I suspect you'd win," said Sandecker. "That would explain why we're not talking to a major player."

    The color had drained from Matos's face, and he looked positively sick. "You misunderstand, my nation stands ready to cooperate in every way possible."

    "You tell your superiors in the National Affairs Department," said Pitt, "or whoever you really work for, that they aren't as smart as they thought."

    "The meeting is over," said Starger. "We'll consider our options and inform your government of our actions this time tomorrow."

    Matos tried to retrieve a shred of dignity. He stared balefully and when he spoke his voice was quieter. "I must warn you of any attempt to send your Special Forces into Mexico–"

    Sandecker cut him off. "I'll give you twenty-four hours to send Congresswoman Smith and my deputy director, Rudi Gunn, over the border crossing between Mexicali and Calexico unharmed. One minute later and a lot of people will get hurt."

    "You do not have the authority to make threats."

    "Once I tell my President your security forces are torturing Smith and Gunn for state secrets, there is no telling how he will react."

    Matos looked horrified. "But that is a total lie, an absurd fabrication."

    Sandecker smiled icily. "See, I know how to invent situations too."

    "I give you my word

    "That will be all, Senor Matos," said Starger. "Please keep my office apprised of any further incidents."

    When the Mexican official left the conference room, he looked like a man who had stood by and watched as his wife ran off with the plumber and his dog was run over by a milk truck. As soon as he was gone, Ragsdale, who had sat back and quietly absorbed the conversation, turned to Gaskill.

    "Well, if nothing else, they don't know we knocked over their illegal storage facility."

    "Let's hope they remain in the dark for another two days."

    "Did you take an inventory of the stolen goods?" asked Pitt.

    "The quantity was so great, it will take weeks to thoroughly itemize every object."

    "Do you recall seeing any Southwestern Indian religious idols, carved from cottonwood?"

    Gaskill shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

    "Please let me know if you do. I have an Indian friend who would like them back."

    Ragsdale nodded at Sandecker. "How do you read the situation, Admiral?" he asked.

    "The Zolars have promised the moon," Sandecker said. "I'm beginning to believe that if they were arrested, half the citizenry of the state of Sonora would rise up and break them out of jail."

    "They'll never allow Loren and Rudi to go free and talk," said Pitt.

    "I hate to be the one to mention it," Ragsdale said quietly, "but they could already be dead."

    Pitt shook his head. "I won't let myself believe that."

    Sandecker rose and began working off his frustration by pacing the floor. "Even if the President approves a clandestine entry, our special response team has no intelligence to guide them to the location where Loren and Rudi are held captive."

    "I have an idea the Zolars are holding them on the mountain," said Giordino.

    Starger nodded in agreement. "You might be right. The hacienda they used as a headquarters to conduct the treasure search appears deserted."

    Ragsdale sighed. "If Smith and Gunn are still alive, I fear it won't be for long."

    "We can do nothing but look helplessly through the fence," said Starger in frustration.

    Ragsdale stared out the window across the border. "The FBI can't launch a raid onto Mexican soil."

    "Nor Customs," said Gaskill.

    Pitt looked at the federal agents for a moment. Then he addressed himself directly to Sandecker. "They can't, but NUMA can."

    They all looked at him, uncomprehending.

    "We can what?" asked Sandecker.

    "Go into Mexico and rescue Loren and Rudi without creating an international incident."

    "Sure you will." Gaskill laughed. "Getting across the border is no trick, but the Zolars have the Sonoran police and military on their side. Satellite photos show heavy security on top and around the base of Cerro el Capirote. You couldn't get within ten kilometers without getting shot."

    "I wasn't planning on driving or hiking to the mountain," said Pitt.

    Starger looked at him and grinned. "What can the National Underwater and Marine Agency do that Customs and the FBI can't? Swim over the desert?"

    "No, not over," said Pitt in a deadly earnest voice. "Under."

NIGHTMARE PASSAGE

October 31, 1998

Satan's Sink, Baja, Mexico

    In the parched foothills on the northern end of the Sierra el Mayor Mountains, almost 50 kilometers (31 miles) due south of Mexicali, there is a borehole, a naturally formed tunnel, in the side of a cliff. Carved millions of years ago by the turbulent action of an ancient sea, the corridor slopes downward to the bottom of a small cavern, sculpted from the volcanic rock by Pliocene epoch water and more recently by windblown sand. There on the floor of the cavern a pool of water emerges from beneath the desert. Except for a tint of cobalt blue, the water is so clear as to appear invisible and from ground level the sinkhole looks to be bottomless.

    Satan's Sink was shaped nothing like the sacrificial pool in Peru, Pitt thought, as he gazed at the yellow nylon line trailing into the transparent depths. He sat on a rock at the edge of the water, his eyes shaded with a look of concern, hands lightly grasping the nylon line whose end was wound around the drum of a compact reel.

    Outside, 80 meters (262 feet) above the bottom of the tubular borehole, Admiral Sandecker sat in a lawn chair beside a ravaged and rusting 1951 Chevy half-ton pickup truck with a faded camper in the bed that looked as though it should have been recycled years ago. Another automobile was parked behind it, a very tired and worn 1968 Plymouth Belvedere station wagon. Both had Baja California Norte license plates.

    Sandecker held a can of Coors beer in one hand as he lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes with the other and scrutinized the surrounding landscape. He was dressed to complement the old truck, having the appearance of any one of thousands of retired American vagabonds who travel and camp around the Baja Peninsula on the cheap.

    He was surprised to find so many flowering plants in the Sonoran Desert, despite scant water and a climate that runs from subfreezing nights in the winter to a summer heat that produces furnace temperatures. Far off in the distance he watched a small herd of horses grazing on bunchgrass.

    Satisfied the only life within his immediate area was a red diamondback rattler sunning itself on a rock and a black tailed jackrabbit that hopped up to him, took one look, and leaped away, he rose from his lawn chair and ambled down the slope of the borehole to the pool.

    "Any sign of the law?" asked Pitt at the admiral's approach.

    Nothing around here but snakes and rabbits," grunted Sandecker. He nodded toward the water. "How long have they been down?"

    Pitt glanced at his watch. "Thirty-eight minutes."

    "I'd feel a whole lot better if they were using professional equipment instead of old dive gear borrowed from local Customs agents."

    "Every minute counts if we're to save Loren and Rudi. By doing an exploratory survey now to see if my plan has the slightest chance of succeeding, we save six hours. The same time it takes for our state-of-the-art equipment to arrive in Calexico from Washington."

    "Sheer madness to attempt such a dangerous operation," said Sandecker in a tired voice.

    "Do we have an alternative?"

    "None that comes to mind."

    "Then we must give it a try," said Pitt firmly.

    "You don't even know yet if you have the slightest prospect of–"

    "They've signaled," Pitt interrupted the admiral as the line tautened in his hands. "They're on their way up."

    Together, Pitt pulling in on the line, Sandecker holding the reel between his knees and turning the crank, they began hauling in the two divers who were somewhere deep inside the sinkhole on the other end of the 200-meter 460(656-foot) line. A long fifteen minutes later, breathing heavily, they brought in the red knot that signified the third fifty-meter mark.

    "Only fifty meters to go," Sandecker commented heavily. He pulled on the reel as he cranked, trying to ease the strain on Pitt who did the major share of the work. The admiral was a health enthusiast, jogged several miles a day, and occasionally worked out in the NUMA headquarters health spa, but the exertion of pulling dead weight without a time-out pushed his heart rate close to the red line. "I see them," he panted thankfully.

    Gratefully, Pitt let go of the line and sagged to a sitting position to catch his breath. "They can ascend on their own from there."

    Giordino was the first of the two divers to surface. He removed his twin air tanks and hoisted them to Sandecker. Then he offered a hand to Pitt who leaned back and heaved him out of the water. The next man up was Dr. Peter Duncan, a U.S. Geological Survey hydrologist, who had arrived in Calexico by chartered jet only an hour after Sandecker contacted him in San Diego. At first he thought the admiral was joking about an underground river, but curiosity overcame his skepticism and he dropped everything to join in the exploratory dive. He spit out the mouthpiece to his air regulator.