Текст книги "Treasure"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 30 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Hundreds were fo into the river by the crush behind.

Frightened cries came from a multitude of young victims as they were pushed into water over their heads. Many went under or drifted away with the current before they could be rescued, a nearimpossible job, since most of the men were grouped farther to the rear.

Slowly, in disorganized confusion, the hundreds of boats and rafts began to pull away for the opposite shore.

The American Army's floodlights, joined by those of the television crews, brightly illuminated the turmoil swelling across the river.

The soldiers stared in uneasy fascination at the tragedy and the human wall advancing toward them.

General Chandler stood on the roof of Roma's police station in the center of the bluff. His face was gray under the lights, and there was a look of despair in his eyes. The scene was far more appalling than his worst fears.

He spoke into a small microphone clipped to his collar. "Can you see, Mr. President? Can you see the madness?"

President stared fixedly at the huge monitor in the Situation Room.

"Yes, General, the transmission is coming in clearly."

He sat at the end of a long table, flanked by his closest advisors, cabinet members and two of the four Joint Chiefs of Staff. They all gazed at the incredible spectacle that was displayed in stereophonic sound and vivid color.

The fastest boats had touched shore, and their passengers quickly scrambled out. Only when the first wave was fully across and the fleet on its way back for the next passengers did the mob assemble and press forward. The few men who had crossed over were walking up and down the shore with bullhorns, encouraging and urging the women forward.

Clutching their candles and their children while chanting in the Aztec language, the women began scrambling up the bluff like an army of ants gathering around a rock in expectation of joining again on the other side.

The terror-haunted looks of the children and the determined faces of their mothers as they stared into the muzzles of the guns were shown by the cameras. Topiltzin said his divine powers would protect them, and they fervently believed him.

"Good lord!" exclaimed Doug Oates. "The entire first wave is made up of Women and little kids."

No one commented on Oates's alarming observation. The men in the Situation Room watched with growing dread as another crowd of women began to lead their children across the bridge and toward the tanks and armored cars solidly blocking their way.

"General," said the President. "Can you fire a volley over their heads?"

"Yes, sir," replied Chandler. "I've ordered my troops to load blank rounds. The risk of hitting innocent people beyond the town is too great to use live ammo."

"A sound decision," said General Metcalf of the Joint Chiefs. "Curtis knows what he's doing."

General Chandler turned to one of his aides. "Give the command to fire a blank salvo."

The aide, a major, barked into a radio receiver. "Blank salvo, fire!"

The thunderous roar spat a wall of flame into the night. The concussion came like a gust of wind, blowing out many of the candles held by the throng. The ear-splitting clap from the tank cannon and the crackle of small-arms fire reverberated throughout the valley.

Ten seconds. Ten seconds it took between the commands to "fire" and

"cease fire," and for the rumble to echo back from the low hills behind Roma.

A paralyzing silence, pierced by the pungent smell of cordite, fell over the stunned multitude.

Then the screams of the women shattered the quiet, quickly joined by the shrieks of the terrified children. Most dropped in horror to the ground while the rest remained standing, frozen in shock. A great outcry followed from the other side as the men, held back from crossing with their wives and children, feared the fallen were dead or wounded.

Pandemonium erupted, and for the next few minutes it looked as though the immigrant invasion had been stopped dead in its tracks.

Then spotlights from the Mexican shore blazed to life and were beamed to a figure standing atop a small platform supported on the shoulders of several men in white tunics.

Topiltzin stood with arms outstretched in a parody of Christ, shouting through speakers, ordering the women who were hugging the ground to rise up and press forward. Slowly the shock diminished and everyone began to realize there were no bloody, mangled bodies. Many laughed hysterically to find they were neither injured nor dead. A rolling cheer went up that turned deafening as the throng mistakenly thought Topiltzin's powers had miraculously swept aside the destruction and shielded them from harm.

"He turned it against us," said Julius Schiller ruefully.

The President shook his head sadly. "Just as it's happened so many times in our nation's history, our humane efforts backfire."

"Chandler's in for it," said Nichols.

General Metcalf nodded very slowly. "Yes, it all falls on his shoulders now."

The time for the fateful decision had arrived. There was no dodging the agonizing issue any longer. The President, sitting safely deep in the basement of the White House, remained strangely silent. He had deftly passed the time bomb to the niiliL-uy, laying the groundwork for General Chandler to become the sacrificial scapegoat.

He was between the proverbial rock and a hard place. He could not allow an army of foreigners to simply storm across the borders unhindered, but neither could he risk the downfall of his entire administration by directly ordering Chandler to slaughter children.

No President ever felt so impotent.

The chanting women and children were only a few short meters away from the troops entrenched a short distance back of the shoreline. Those at the head of the snakelike column of candles crossing the international bridge were already close enough to look up at the gun muzzles of the tanks.

General Curtis Chandler had a long and illustrious military career to look back upon, but nothing to look forward to except a guilt-stricken conscience. His wife had died the year before from a long illness, and they had no children. A onestar Brigadier General, he had no more rank to attain in the short time before his retirement. Now he stood on the bluff watching hundreds of thousands of illegal inunigrants flood into his nativ land and wondered why his life had cruelly culmanated at this place and time.

The expression on his aide's face bordered on frantic. "Sir, the order to fire."

Chandler stared at the little children nervously clutching their mothers' hands, their candles revealing their wide, dark eyes.

"General, your orders?" the aide implored.

Chandler mumbled something, but the aide couldn't hear it over the chanting. "I'm sorry, General, did you say 'Fire'?"

Chandler turned and his eyes glistened. "Let them pass."

"Sir?"

"Those are my orders, Major. I'm damned if I'll go to my grave a baby killer. And for God's sake don't even say the words 'Don't fire,' in case some dumb platoon commander misunderstands."

The Major nodded and hurriedly spoke into his microphone. "To all commanders, General Chandler's orders; make no hostile move and allow the immigrants to pass through our lines, repeat, stand down and let them through."

With immeasurable relief, the American soldiers lowered their weapons and stood stiff and uneasy for a few minutes. Then they relaxed and began flirting with the women and, kneeling down, playing with the children and gently cajoling them to wipe away their tears.

"Forgive me, Mr. President," said Chandler, speaking into a camera. "I regret I must end my military career by refusing a direct order from my Commander-in-Chief, but I felt that under the circumstances .

"Not to worry," replied the President. "You did a magnificent job." He turned to General Metcalf. "I don't care where he stands on the seniority list; please see that Curtis receives another star."

"I'll be more than happy to take care of it, sir."

"Good call, Mr. President," said Schiller, realizing the President's silence had all been a bluff. "You certainly knew your man."

There was a faint smile in the President's eyes. "I served with Curtis Chandler when we were Lieutenants of Artillery in Korea. He would have fired on a vicious, out-of-control, armed mob, but women and babies, never."

General Metcalf also saw through the facade. "You still took a terrible chance."

The President nodded in agreement. "Now I have to answer to the American people for the unopposed invasion of their land by masses of illegal aliens."

"Yes, but your show of restraint will be a strong bargaining chip for future negotiations with President De Lorenzo and other Central American leaders," Oates consoled him.

"In the meantime," added Mercier, "our military and law enforcement agencies will be quietly rounding up Topiltzin's followers and herding them back across the border before the threat of vigilante warfare breaks out."

"I want the operation to be conducted as humanely as possible," the President said firmly.

"Haven't we forgotten something, Mr. President?" asked Metcalf.

"General?"

"The Alexandria Library. Nothing stands in the way now of Topiltzin's looting the artifacts."

The President turned to Senator Pitt, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table. "Well, George, the Army has struck out, and you're the last man at bat. You care to enlighten everyone on your stopgap plan?"

The Senator looked down at the table. He didn't want the others to see the uneasy apprehension in his eyes. "A desperation long shot, a deception created by my son, Dirk. I don't know how else to describe it. But if everything goes right, Robert Capesterre, a.k.a. Topiltzin, won't lay his hands on the knowledge of the ancients. However, if all goes wrong, as some critics already suggest, the Capesterres will rule Mexico and the treasure will be lost forever."

Thankfully, the outpouring of religious zeal and Topiltzin's maniacal grab for power did not end in bloodshed. There was no death by misunderstanding. The only real tragedy was that of the young victim who had drowned during the first crossing.

Unbound, the massive crowd flowed past the army units and through the streets of Roma toward Gongora frill. The chanting had faded and they shouted slogans in the Aztec tongue that all American and most Mexican observers could not comprehend.

Topiltzin led the triumphal pilgrimage up the slope of the hill. The Aztec god unposter had carefully planned for his role of deliverer.

Seizing the Egyptian treasures would give him the necessary influence and forcing aside the long reigning Institutional Revolutionary Party of President De Lorenzo without the inconvenience of a free election.

The head of Mexico was within four hundred meters of falling into Capesterre family hands.

News of his brother's death in Egypt had not yet reached him. His close supporters and advisers had deserted the communications truck during the excitement and missed the urgent message. They walked behind Topiltzin's hand-carried platform, driven by curiosity to see the artifacts.

Topiltzin stood erect in a white robe with a jaguar-skin cape draped on his shoulders, clutching a raised pole that flew a banner of the eagle and the snake. A forest of portable spotlights were aimed at his platform, bathing him in a multicolored corona. The glare distracted him, and he gestured for some of the lights to sweep the slope ahead.

Except for several pieces of heavy equipment, the excavation seemed deserted. None of the Army Engineers was evident near the crater or the tunnel. Topiltzin didn't like the look of it. He spread his hands as a signal for the advancing mob to halt. The order was repeated through loudspeakers until the forward wall of people slowly came to a stop, every face turned toward Topiltzin, reverently awaiting his next command.

Suddenly, a bansheelike wail rose from the summit of the hill and increased in volume until its shrill pitch forced the crowd to cover their ears with their hands.

Then, an an aray of strobe lights sparkled and flashed across the sea of faces. A light display with the magical dazzle of the northern lights danced in the night sky. The people stood rooted, gazing entranced at the extraordinary sight.

The light show grew to an indescribable intensity while the shriek whipped the air around the countryside with the eerie timbre of a sound track from a science-fiction movie.

Together the flashing lights and the eerie sounds built to a breathtaking crescendo, and then the strobe lights went out and the silence struck with stunning abruptness.

for a full minute the sound rang in everyone's ears, and the lights skyrocketed in their eyes. Then an unseen light source very slowly highlighted a lone figure of a man standing on the peak of the hill. The effect was startling. The light rays shimmered and glistened off metallic objects surrounding his body.

When the man was fully revealed, he was seen to be wearing the fighting gear of an ancient Roman legionary.

He wore a burgundy tunic under a polished iron cuirass. The helmet on his head and the greaves protecting his shins were shined to a high gloss. A gladius-a double-edged sword-hung at his side, clasped to a leather sling that went over the opposite shoulder. One arm held an oval shield while the opposite hand gripped an uptight pilum thrusting spear.

Topiltzin stared with curious fascination. A game, a joke, a theatrical hoax? What were the Americans scheming now? His immense horde of believers stood in hushed silence and stared at the Roman as if he were a phantom. Then they slowly turned back to Topiltzin, waiting expectantly for their messiah to make the first move.

A bluff born of desperation, he decided finally. The Americans were playing their last card in an effort to block his superstitious, dirt-poor followers from approaching the treasures.

"Could be a trick to kidnap and hold you as a hostage," said one of his nearby advisers.

There was contemptuous speculation in Topiltzin's eyes. "A trick, yes.

But a kidnap, no. The Americans know this mob would go on a rampage if I was threatened. The ploy is transparent. Except for the envoy whose skin I sent back to Washington, I've denied all appeals for talks with their State Department officials. This theatrical production is simply a clumsy attempt at a final face-to-face negotiation. I'd be interested to learn what offer they've thrown on the table. "

Without uttering another word and without listening to further warnings from his advisers, he ordered the platform lowered to the ground, and he stepped off. The spotlights stayed on him as he advanced up the hill alone and arrogant. His feet did not show beneath the hem of his robe and he appeared to glide rather than walk.

He moved at a measured pace, fingering a hoistered Colt Python .357

revolver on a belt under his robe. He also kept one hand on an orange smoke bomb in case he required a visual effect to screen a quick escape.

He approached until he could clearly see that the figure in the Roman legionary costume was a department store mannequin. It wore an insipid smile, and the painted eyes stared blankly into nothingness. The plaster hands and face were faded and chipped.

An unmistakable curiosity spread on Topiltzin's face as he studied the dummy, but there was also a look of wariness. He was sweating freely, and the white robe had wrinkled and gone limp.

Then a tall man in range boots, denims and a white turtleneck sweater stepped into the spotlights from behind a thicket of mesquite. He peered through opaque green eyes that were as cold as an Arctic ice floe. He stopped when he stood beside the mannequin.

Topiltzin felt he had the advantage. He wasted no time. He spoke first in English. "What did you hope to gain with the dummy and the light show?"

"Your attention."

"My compliments. You were successful. Now if you'll kindly relate your government's message."

The stranger stared at him for a long moment. "Anybody ever tell you your outfit looks like a bed sheet the day after a college fraternity toga party?"

Topiltzin's expression hardened. "Did your President hope to insult me by sending a clown?"

"I believe this is where I'm supposed to say, 'It takes one to know one."'

"You have one minute to state your case ' he paused and made a sweeping gesture with his hand– "before I order my people to resume their march."

Pitt turned to the rear of the hill and looked questioningly toward the many kilometers of dark, open country. "March where?"

Topiltzin ignored the remark. "You can begin with your name, your title and function in the American bureaucracy."

"My name is Dirk Pitt. My title is Mister Pitt. My function is United States taxpayer, and you can go straight to hell."

Topiltzin's eyes blazed darkly. "Men have died horribly for showing disrespect to one who speaks directly to the gods."

Pitt smiled with the bored unconcern of the devil being threatened by a television evangelist. "If we have to talk, let's cut out the hype and hot air. You've misled the poor of Mexico with stage gimmicks while promising them new lifestyles over the rainbow you can't possibly deliver. You're a fraud; from top to bottom you're a fraud. So don't talk down to me. I'm not one of your garbage pickers. I'm not impressed with criminal scum like Robert Capesterre."

Capesterre opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He took a step backward, surprise showing in his eyes, unable to fully believe what he'd heard.

Seconds passed while he stared at Pitt. At last he spoke in a hoarse whisper. "How much do you know?"

"Enough," Pitt replied casuaily– "the Capesterre family and their shiny business are the talk of Washington. Champagne corks popped all over the White House when word came in about Your grease-head brother, the one who he's a Muslim prophet. Poetic justice, him getting killed by the terrorist who ordered him to hijack the Lady Flamborough and murder the passengers.

"My brother ' Capesterre could not spit out the word "dead."

"I don't believe you."

"You didn't know?" Pitt asked, mildly surprised. "I talked to him less than twenty-four hours ago," Topilwn said adamantly. "Paul . . . Akhmad Yazid is alive and well."

"A corpse is not one of his better imitations."

"What do you or your government hope to gain by these games?"

Pitt stared at Capesterre coldly. "I'm glad you brought that up. The idea here is to save the Alexandria Library and we can't very well do that if you unleash your groupies inside the depository chamber. They'll steal whatever they can to buy or trade for food, and destroy books and what they don't value."

"You alone can stop them!"

"My followers do what I command."

"The books and artworks have to be catalogued and surveyed by Archeologists."

"I do not have to allow anything, Mr. Pitt. There will be no concessions."

"Your military wouldn't turn my people back at the river, therefore the treasure is mine.

If any attempt is made to stop our removal of the treasure to Mexico, I shall order it all burned and destroyed."

"I have to give you credit, Capesterre," Pitt muttered in disgust. "You think big. A pity you're allowed to run loose. You could make up a fifth Napoleon for a poker game in an asylum."

Irritation flickered at the edge of Capesterre's eyes. "Goodbye, Mr.

Pitt. My patience is exhausted. I will genuinely enjoy sacrificing you to the gods and sending your flayed skin to the White House."

"Forgive me for not having any decorative tattoos."

Capesterre found Pitts free-and-my indifference unnerving. No one had ever talked down to him before. He turned and raised a hand toward the hushed mass of people.

"Don't you think you should inventory your new wealth before you Turn it over to them?" Pitt asked. "Especially Alexander's golden casket."

Capesterre's hand slowly dropped. There was a flush at his temples.

"What are you saying? Alexander's casket exists?"

"And so do his remains." Pitt motioned toward the excavated runnel.

"Would you like a guided tour before you throw open the storage chamber to your adoring public?"

Capesterre nodded. With his back to the crowd he slipped the Colt revolver from the belt beneath his robe and held it out of sight under a loose, draped sleeve. His other hand gripped the smoke bomb. "The slightest move by you or anyone hidden inside the tunnel to harm me, and I will blow your spine in two."

"Why would I possibly want to harm you?" Pitt asked with mock innocence.

"Where are the engineers who were working the excavation?"

"Every man who could carry a gun was sent to the defense line at the river."

The lie seemed to satisfy Capesterre. "Raise your shirt and drop your pants below your boots."

"In front of all these people?" Pitt asked, smiling.

"I want to see if you're armed or wired for sound."

Pitt pulled his turtleneck above his shoulders and lowered the denims to his ankles. There was no sign of a bidden mutter or gun on his body or inside his boots. "Satisfied?"

Topiltzm nodded. He waved the gun toward the shaft entrance. "You lead, I'D follow."

"Mind if I carry the dummy inside? The weapons he's holding are real artifacts."

"You can leave them just inside the entrance." Then turned and waved a signal to his advisers that all was safe.

Pitt adjusted his clothing, removed the weapons from the mannequin and entered the shaft.

The roof was slightly less than two meters high, and Pitt had to duck under the support beams as he walked. He deposited the spear and sword, but kept the shield, placing it over his head as if to ward off falling rock.

knowing the shield was as useless as a sheet of cardboard against rounds from a .357-magnum handgun, Topiltzin made no protest.

The shaft sloped sharply down for twelve meters and then leveled off.

The passage was lit by a stnug of lights that hung from the beams. The Army Engineers had cut the walls and floor almost perfectly flat so the going was easy. The only discomfort was the stuffy air and the dust that rose in swirls from their footsteps.

"Are you'receiving sound and picture, Mr. President?"