Текст книги "Treasure"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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The nightly poker sessions had indeed been held on Sctfiller's boat since 1986, and went far beyond a simple card game between friends who needed one evening out of the week to unwilld. It was originally set up as a small crack in the wall separating the opposing superpowers. Alone, without an official setting and inaccessible to the news media, they could informally give and take viewpoints while ignoring bureaucratic red tape and diplomatic protocol. ideas and information were exchanged that often had a direct bearing on Soviet-American relations.

"I open for fifty cents," announced Schiller.

"I'll raise that a dollar," said Korolenko.

"And they wonder why we don't trust them," Nichols groaned.

The Senator spoke to Korolenko without looking at him. "What's the prediction from your side on open revolt in Egypt, Aleksey?"

"I give President Hasan no more than days before his government is overthrown by Akhmad Yazid."

:'You don't see a prolonged fight?"

'No, not if the military throws its weight behind Yazid."

"You in, Senator?" asked Nichols.

"I'll go along for the ride."

"Yujri?"

Vyhousky dropped fifty-cent pieces in the pot.

"Since Husan took over after Mubarak's resignation," said Schiller,

"he's achieved a level of stability. I he'll holdon ' . 'You said the same about the Shah of Iran," Korolenko goaded.

"No denying we called the wrong shots." Schffler paused and dropped his throwaway cards on the table. "Let me have two."

Korolenko held up one finger and received his card. "You might as well pour your massive aid into a bottomless pit. The Egyptian masses are on the brink of starvation. A situation that fuels the surge of religious fanaticism sweeping the slums and villages. You stand as little chance of stopping Yazid as you did Khomeini."

"And what is the Kremlin's stance?" asked Senator Pitt.

"We wait," said Korolenko impassively. "We wait until the dust settles."

Schiller eyed his cards and shifted them around. "No matter the outcome, nobody wills."

"True, we all lose. You may be the great Satan in the eyes of Islamic fundamentalists, but as good Communist atheists we're not loved either.

I don't have to tell you the biggest loser is Israel. With the disastrous defeat of Iraq by Iran and the assassination of President Saddam Husayn, the road is now open for him and Syria to threaten the moderate Arab nations into combining forces for a massive three-front attack against Israel. The Jews will surely be defeated this time."

The Senator shook his head doubtfully. "The Israelis have the finest fighting machine in the Middle East. They've won before, and they're prepared to do it again."

"Not against 'human wave' attacks by nearly two million Arabs," warned Vyhousky. "Assad's forces will drive south while Yazid's Egyptians attack north across the Sinai, as they did in 'sixty-seven and

'seventy-three. Only this time h-an's army will sweep over Saudi Arabia and Jordan, crossing the River Jordan from the West. Despite their fighting skills and superior technology, the Israelis will be overwhelmed."

"And when the slaughter finally ends," added Korolenko ominously, "the West will be thrown into a state of economic depression when the united Muslim governments, with total control of fifty-five percent of the world's oil reserves, drive prices to astronomical heights. As they surely will."

"Your bet," Nichols said to Schiller.

"Two bucks."

"Raise you two," came Korolenko.

Vyhousky threw his cards on the table. "I fold."

The Senator contemplated his hand a moment. "I'll match the four and raise another four."

"The sharks are circling," said Nichols with a tight smile. "Count me out."

"Let's not kid ourselves," said the Senator. "It's no secret the Israelis have a small arsenal of nuclear weapons, and they won't hesitate to use them if they're down to the last roll of the dice."

Schiller sighed deeply. "I don't even like to think about the consequences." He looked up as his boat's skipper knocked on the door and hesitantly stepped in.

"Excuse me for interrupting, Mr. Schiller, but there's an important call for you."

Schiller pushed his cards toward Nichols. "No sense in prolonging the agony with this hand. Would you excuse me?"

One of the cardinal niles of the weekly get-together was no phone calls unless it was a matter of urgency that in some way concerned everyone at the table. The game continued, but the four men played automatically, their curiosity mounting.

"Your bet, Aleksey," said the Senator.

"Raise you another four dollars."

"I call."

Korolenko shrugged resignedly and laid down his cards face up. All he had was a pair of fours.

The Senator smiled wryly and turned over his cards. He won with a pair of sixes.

"Oh, good lord," moaned Nichols. "I dropped out with a pair of kings."

"There goes your lunch money, Aleksey." Vyhousky laughed.

"So we bluffed each other," said Korolenko. "Now I know why I won't buy a used car from an American politician."

The Senator leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through a thick mane of silver hair. "As a matter of fact I worked my way through law school selling cars. Best training I ever had for running for the Senate."

Schiller reentered the room and sat down at the table. "Sorry to leave, but I've just been notified that a chartered United Nations plane crashed on the coast of northern Greenland. Over fifty known dead. No word on survivors."

"any Soviet representatives on board?" asked Vyhousky. ... The passenger list hasn't come through yet."

"A terrorist bombing?"

"Too early to tell, but first sketchy reports say it was no accident."

"What flight was it?" Nichols asked.

"London to New York."

"Northern Greenland?" Nichols repeated thoughtfully. "They must have strayed over a thousand miles off course."

"Smells of a hijacking," suggested Vyhousky.

"Rescue units are on the site," explained Schiller. "We should know more within the hour."

The expression on Senator Pitts face darkened. "I have a dire suspicion that Hala Kamil was on that flight. She was due back at United Nations headquarters from Europe for next week's session of the General Assembly."

"I believe George is right," said Vyhousky. "Two of our Soviet delegates were traveling in her party."

"Madness," said Schiller, wearily shaking his head. "Utter madness. Who would gain by murdering a planeload of U.N. people?"

No one answered immediately. There was a long moment's silence.

Korolenko stared, expressionless, at the center of the table. Then he spoke in a quiet voice.

The Senator stared the Russian straight in the eye. "You knew."

"I guessed."

"You think Yazid ordered Kamil's death?"

"I can only say our intelligence sources discovered there was an Islamic faction in Cairo that was planning an attempt."

"And you stood by and said nothing while fifty innocent people died-"

"A miscalculation," admitted Korolenko. "We did not know how or when the assassination was to take place. It was assumed Kmfl's LIFE would be in danger only if she went to Egypt-not from Yazid lf, but rather his fanatical followers. Yazid has never been tied to any terrorist acts.

Your profile of him reads the same as ours: a brilliant man who thinkqs of himself as a Muslim Gandhi."

"So much for KGB and CIA profiles," said Vyhousky candidly.

"Another classic case of intelligence experts being suckered by a well-conceived public-relations campaign," sighed the Senator. "The man is a bigger psycho case than we figured."

Schiller nodded in agreement. "Yazid has to be responsible for the tragedy. His followers would never have considered it without his blessing."

"He had the motive," said Nichols. "Kamil has immense flair and charm.

Her level of popularity with the people and the military far exceeds President Hasan's. She was a strong buffer. If she's dead, Egypt is only hours away from a government led by extremist mullahs."

"And when Hasan falls?" asked Korolenko slyly. "What will be the White House position then?"

Schiller and Nichols exchanged knowing looks. "Why, the same as the Kremlin's," said Schiller. "We're going to wait until the dust settles."

for a moment the fixed smile faded from Korolenko's face. "And if, make that when, the combined Arab nations attack the Jewish state?"

"We'll back Israel to the hilt, as we have in the past."

"But will you send in American forces?"

"Probably not."

"Arab leaders might be less cautious if only they knew that. "

"Be our guest. Only remember, -this time, we're not going to use our leverage to stop the Israelis from taking Cairo, Beirut and Damascus."

"You're saying the President won't stand in their way if they resort to nuclear weapons?"

"Something like that," Schiller said with studied indifference. He turned to Nichols. "Whose deal?"

"I believe it's mine," said the Senator, trying his best to sound casual. This switch in the President's Middle East policy was news to him. "Shall we ante fifty cents?"

The Russians were not about to let loose.

"I find this most disturbing," said Vyhousky.

"A new posture had to come sometime," Nichols confessed. "The latest projections put United States oil reserves at eighty billion barrels.

With prices pushing fifty dollars a barrel, our oil companies can now afford to mount a massive exploration program. And, of course, we can still count on Mexican and South American reserves. The bottom line is that we no longer have to rely on the Middle East for oil. So we're cutting bait. If the Soviet government wants to inherit the Arab mess, take it as a gift."

Korolenko couldn't believe what he was hearing. His ingrained wariness made him skeptical. But he knew the Americans too well to doubt they would bluff or mislead him, on an issue of such magnitude.

Senator Pitt had his doubts, too, about the game plan the President was leaking to the Soviet representatives. There was a strong possibility oil would not flow over the Rio Grande when America needed it. Mexico was a revolution waiting for the starter's gun.

Egypt was cursed with a Dark Ages fanatic like Yazid. But Mexico had its madman in a Topiltzin, a Benito JuArez/Emilio Zapata messiah who preached a return to a religious state based on Aztec culture. Like Yazid, Topiltzin was supported by millions of his nation's poor, and he was also inches away from sweeping out the existing government.

Where were all the madmen coming from, the Senator wondered? Who was spawning these devils? He made a conscious effort to keep his hands steady as he began to deal.

"Five card stud, gentlemen, jokers wild."

Huge figures rose up in the eerie silence of the night and gazed through empty eyes at the barren landscape as if waiting for some unknown presence to bring them to life. The stark, rigid figures stood as tall as a two-story building, their grim, expressionless faces highlighted by a full moon.

A thousand years ago they had supported a temple roof that sat on top of the five-step pyramid of Quetzalcoatl in the Toltec city of Tula. The temple was gone but the pyramid remained and was reconstructed by archaeologists. The ruins stretched along a low ridge, and during the city's glory sixtythousand people lived and walked on its streets.

Few visitors found their way to the site, and those who took the trouble were awed by TVIa's haunted desolation.

The moon cast ghostly shadows through the dead city as a solitary man climbed the steep steps of the pyramid to the stone statues at the summit. He was dressed in a suit and tie and carried a leather attached case.

At each of the five terraces he stopped for a few moments and peered at the macabre sculptured friezes decorating the walls. Human faces protruded from the gaping mouths of serpents while eagles shredded human hearts with their beaks. He continued, passing an altar carved with skulls and crossbones, symbols used in later centuries by pirates of the Caribbean.

He was sweating when he finally reached the top of the pyramid and looked around. He was not alone. Two figures stepped forward and roughly searched him. They motioned at his attache case. He obligingly opened it and the men rummaged through the contents. Finding no weapons, they silently retreated to the edge of the temple platform.

Rivas relaxed and pressed a hidden switch on the handle of the case. A small tape recorder secreted inside the lid began to roll.

After a short minute had passed, a figure emerged from the shadows of the great stone statues. He was dressed in a floorlength robe of white cloth. His hair was long and tied at the base, giving it the look of a rooster tail. His feet were hidden under the robe, but the moon's light revealed circular bands around his arms that were carved from gold and inlaid with turquoise.

He was short, and the smooth, oval face suggested Indian ancestry. His dark eyes studied the tall, fair-complexioned man before him, taking in the oddly-out-of-place business suit. He crossed his arms and spoke strange words that sounded almost lyrical.

"I am Topiltzin."

"My name is Guy Rivas, Special Representative for the President of the United States."

Rivas had expected an older man. it was difficult to guess the Mexican messiah's age, but he didn't look a year over thirty.

Topiltzin gestured to a low wall. "Shall we sit while we talk?"

Rivas nodded a "Thank you" and sat down. "You chose a most unusual setting."

"Yes, I thought it appropriate." Topiltzin's tone suddenly turned contemptuous. "Your President was afraid for us to confer openly. He did not want to embarrass and anger his friends in Mexico City."

Rivas knew better than to be baited. "The President asked me to express his gratitude for allowing me to talk with you."

"I expected someone with a higher rank of state."

"Your conditions were you'd speak with only one man. We took that to mean no interpreter for our side. And since you do not wish to speak Spanish or English, I am the only ranking government official who has a tongue for Nahuatl, the language of the Aztecs."

"You speak it very well."

"My family immigrated to America from the town of Escampo. They taught it to me when I was quite young."

"I know Escampo; a small village with proud people who barely survive."

"You claim you'll end poverty in Mexico. The President is most interested in your programs."

"Is that why he sent you?" Topiltzin asked.

Rivas nodded. "He wishes to open a line of communication. "

There was silence as a grim smile crossed Topiltzin's features. "A shrewd man. Because of my country's economic collapse he knows my movement will sweep the ruling Partido Revolutionary Institutional out of office, and he fears an upheaval in U.S. and Mexican relations. So he plays both ends against the middle."

"I can't read the President's mind."

"He will soon learn the great majority of Mexican people are finished with being doormats for the ruling class and wealthy. They are sick of political fraud and corruption. They are tired of digging garbage in the slums. They will suffer no more."

"By building a utopia from the dust of the Aztecs?"

"Your own nation would do well to return to the ways of your founding fathers."

"The Aztecs were the biggest butchers in the Americas. To fashion a modern government on ancient barbarian beliefs is . . ." Rivas paused.

He almost said "idiotic." Instead, he pulled back and said, "naive."

Topiltzin's round face tensed and his hands worked compulsively. "You forget, it was the Spanish conquistadors who slaughtered our common ancestors."

"Spain could say the same about the Moors, which would hardly justify restoring the Inquisition."

"What does your President want from me?"

"Merely peace and prosperity in Mexico," replied Rivas, holding the line. "And a promise you will not steer a course toward Communism."

"I am not a Marxist. I detest Communists as much as he does. No armed guerrillas exist among my followers."

"He'll be glad to hear it."

"Our new Aztec nation will attain greatness once the criminally wealthy, the corrupt officials, and present government and army leaders are sacrificed."

Rivas wasn't sure he interpreted right. "You're talking about the execution of thousands of people."

"No, Mr. Rivas, I'm talking sacrificial victims for our revered gods, Quetzalcoad, Huitzilopochtli, Tezcatlipoca."

Rivas looked at him, not comprehending. "Sacrificial victims?"

Topiltzin did not reply.

Rivas, staring at the stoic face, suddenly knew. "No!" he burst out.

"You can't be serious."

"Our country will again be known by its Aztec name of Tenochtitian,"

Topiltzin continued impassively. "We shall be a religious state.

Nahuatl will become our official language. Population will be brought under control by stern measures. Foreign industries will be the property of the state. Only the native born can be allowed to live within our borders. All others will be expelled from the country."

Rivas was stunned. He sat white-faced, listening in silence.

Topiltzin went on without pause. "No more goods are to be purchased from the United States nor will you be allowed to buy our oil. Our debts to world banks will be declared null and void, and all foreign assets confiscated. I also demand the return of our lands in California, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. To ensure this return I intend to turn loose millions of my people across the border."

Topiltzin's threats were nothing short of frightening. Rivas's distraught mind could not conceive the terrible consequences.

"Pure madness," Rivas said desperately. "The President will never listen to such absurd demands."

"He will not believe what I say?"

"No sane man would."

Rivas in his uneasiness had stepped too far.

Topiltzin slowly rose to his feet, eyes unblinking, head lowered, and spoke in a toneless voice. "Then I must send him a message he will understand."

He raised his hands over his head, arms outstretched toward the dark sky. As if on cue four Indians appeared wearing white capes clasped at the neck and nothing else. Approaching from all sides, they quickly subdued Rivas, who froze in astonishment. They carried him to the stone altar sculpted with the skulls and crossbones and threw him on his back, holding him down by the arms and legs.

At first Rivas was too dazed to protest, too incredulous with shock to comprehend Topiltzin's intention. When horrorstruck realization came, he cried out.

"Oh, God! No! No!"

Topiltzin coldly ignored the terrified American, the pitiful fright in his eyes, and stepped to the side of the altar. He gave a nod, and one of the men ripped away Rivas's shirt, exposing the chest.

"Don't do this!" Rivas pleaded.

A razor-sharp obsidian knife seemed to materialize in Topiltzin's upraised left hand. The moonlight glinted from the black, glassy blade as it hung poised.

Rivas screamed-the last sound he would ever make.

Then the knife plunged.

The tall column-statues looked down upon the bloody act with stone-cold indifference. They had witnessed the horrible disPlay of inhuman cruelty thousands of times, a thousand years ago. There was no pity in their timeworn chiseled eyes as Rivas's still-beating heart was torn from his chest.

Despite the people and activity around him, Pitt was captivated by the dense silence of the cold north. There was an incredible stillness about it that seemed to overwhelm the voices and sounds of machinery. He felt as though he were standing in numbing solitude inside a refrigerator on a desolate world.

Daylight finally appeared, filtered by a peculiar gray mist that permitted no shadows. By midmorning the sun began to burn away the icy haze and the sky turned a soft orange-white. The ethereal light made the rocky peaks overlooking the fjord look like tombstones in a snow-covered cemetery.

The scene surrounding the crash site was beginning to resemble a military invasion. A fleet of five Air Force helicopters had been the first to arrive, ferrying an Army Special Service Force of heavily armed and determined-looking men who immediately cordoned off the fuselage and began patrolling the entire area. An hour later, Federal Aviation accident investigators landed and set about marking the scattered wreckage for removal. They were followed by a team of pathologists who tagged and removed the bodies to the helicopters, which quickly airlifted them to the morgue at Tule Air Force Base.

The Navy was represented by Commander Knight and the unexpected appearance of the Polar Explorer. All halted their grisly chores and turned their eyes toward the sea as a series of loud whoops from the ship's siren echoed -off the jagged mountains.

Dodging newly-formed ice calves, floating low and opaque, and the winter's first bergs, which resembled the ruins of Gothic castles, the Polar Explorer came about slowly and entered the mouth of the fjord. for a time the ash-blue sea hissed quietly past the scarred, and then it turned to white.

The immense prow of the icebreaker effortlessly bulldozed a path through the ice pack, heaving to less than fifty meters from the wreckage.

Knight stopped engines, climbed down a ladder to the ice and graciously offered the facilities of the ship to the security and investigation teams as a command post-an offer that was thankfully accepted without a second's hesitation.

Pitt was impressed with the security. The news blackout had not yet been penetrated: the story given out at Kennedy Airport revealed only that the U.N. flight was overdue. It was only a matter of another hour before a shrewd correspondent got wise and blew the whistle.

"I think my eyeballs just froze to their lids," Giordino said gloomily.

He was sitting in the pilot's seat of the NUMA helicopter, trying to drink a cup of coffee before it froze. ,Must be colder than a Minnesota dairy cow's tit in January."

Pitt gave his friend a dubious look. "How would you know?

You haven't been outside your heated cockpit all night."

"I get frostbite by looking at an ice cube in a glass of Scotch." Giordino held up one hand, five fingers an all spread.

"Look at that. I'm so stiff with cold I can't make a fist."

Pitt happened to glance out the side window and spotted Commander Knight trudging over the ice from the ship. He walked back to the cabin and opened the cargo door when Knight reached the boarding ladder. Giordino moaned in self-pity as his precious heat escaped and a frigid breeze engulfed the interior of the chopper.

Knight waved a greeting and climbed on board, exhaling clouds of vapor.

He reached inside his parka and produced a leather-covered flask.

"A little something from the sick bay. Cognac. Can't begin to guess the brand. Thought you might find a good use for it."

"I think you just sent Giordino to heaven," Pitt said, laughing.

"I'd rather be in hell," Giordino muttered. He tipped the flask and savored the brandy as it trickled into his stomach. Then he raised his hand again and made a fist. "I I'm cured."

"Might as well settle in," said Knight. "We've been ordered to remain on station for the next twenty-four hours. If you'll pardon the awful pun, they want to keep us on ice until the cleanup is over."

"How are the survivors doing?" inquired Pitt.

"Miss Kamil is resting comfortably. Incidentally, she asked to see you.

Something about having dinner together in New York. "

"Dinner?" asked Pitt innocently.

"fullny thing," Knight continued. "Just before Doc Gale surgically repaired the flight attendant's torn knee ligaments, she mentioned a dinner date with you too."

Pitt had a pure-as-the-driven-snow expression on his face. "I guess they must be hungry."

Giordino rolled his eyes and tilted the flask again. "I I've heard this song before."

"And the steward?"

"Rough shape," Knight replied. "But Doc thinks he'll pull through. His name is Rubin. While he was slipping under the anesthetic he babbled some wild story about the pilot murdering the first and second officers and then vanishing in flight."

"Maybe not so wild," said Pitt. "The pilot's body has yet to be found."

"Not my territory," Knight shagged. "I've got enough to worry about without getting bogged down in an unsolved air mystery.

"Where do we stand on the Russian sub?" asked Giordino.

"We keep the lid on our discovery until we can report face to face with the big brass at the Pentagon. Stupid to fumble away the ball away through a communications leak. A piece of luck, for us at any rate, the plane crashing. Gives us the logical excuse to set a course for home and our dock in Portsmouth as soon as the survivors can be airlifted to a stateside hospital. Let's hope the unexpected diversion will confuse Soviet intelligence analysts enough to get them off our back."

"Don't count on it," Giordino said, his face beginning to glow. "If the Russians had the slightest suspicion we struck pay dirt, and they're paranoid enough to think our side caused the plane crash as a diversion, they'll come charging in with salvage ships, a protective fleet of warships, a swarm of covering aircraft and, when they pinpoint the sub, raise and tow it back to their station at Severomorsk on the Kola Peninsula."

"Or blow it into smithereens," Pitt added.

"Destroy it?"

"The Soviets don't have major salvage technology. Their prime objective would be to make certain no one else laid hands on it."

Giordino passed the cognac to Pitt. "No sense debating the cold war here. Why don't we return to the ship, where it's nice and warm?"

"Might as well," said Knight. "You two have already done more than your share."

Pitt stretched and began zipping up his parka. "Think I'll take a hike."

"You're not coming back with us?"

"In a bit. Thought I'd look in on the archaeologists and see how they are."

"Wasted trip. Doc sent one of his medics over to their camp. He's already reported back. Except for a few bruises and strains they were all fine."

"Might find it interesting to see what they've dug up," Pitt persisted.

Giordino was an old hand at reading Pitts mind. "Maybe they've found a few old Greek amphoras lying around."

"Won't hurt to ask."

Knight gave Pitt the benefit of a hard stare. "Mind what you say."

"I have our geological survey story down pat."

"And the aircraft passengers and crew?"

"They were all trapped among the wreckage and died from hypothermia brought on by exposure to the frigid water."

"I think he's ready for the big sting," said Giordino dryly. "Good,"

Knight nodded. "You've got the right idea. Just don't suggest anything they have no reason to know."

Pitt opened the cargo door and gave a casual nod. "Don't wait up. Then he stepped into the cold.

"Persistent cuss," Knight muttered. "I didn't know Pitt was interested in antiquities."

Giordino gazed through the cockpit window as Pitt set off across the fjord. Then he sighed.

"Neither did he."

The ice field was firm and flat, and Pitt made good time across the fjord. He scanned the ominous gray cloud ceiling rolling in from the northwest. The weather could change from bright sunshine to a blinding blizzard within minutes and obliterate all landmarks. He wasn't keen on wandering lost without even a compass, and he increased his pace.

A pair of white gyrfalcons soared above him. Seemingly immune to the Arctic cold, they were a select group of birds that remained in the north during the harsh winter.

Moving in a southerly direction, he crossed the shoreline and kept his bearings on the smoke that rose above the archaeologists' hut. The distant and indistinct smudge appeared as though seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

Pitt was only ten minutes away from the camp when the storm struck. One minute he could see nearly twenty kilometers, the next his visibility was cut to less than five meters.

He started jogging, desperately hoping he was traveling in something remotely resembling a straight line. The horizontally driving snow came against his left shoulder and he leaned into it slightly to compensate for his drift.

The wind increased and beat against him until he could barely stand. He shuffled blindly forward, looking down at his feet, counting his strides, his arms huddled about his head. He knew it was impossible to walk sightless without gradually wandering in a circle. He was also aware that he could walk past the archaeolgists' hut, missing it by a few meters, and stumble on until he dropped from exhaustion.

Despite the high wind-chill factor, his heavy clothing kept him reasonably warm, and he could tell by his heartbeat that he was not unduly exerting himself.

Pitt paused when he calculated that he was in the approximate vicinity of the hut. He continued walking another thirty paces before stopping again.

He turned to his right and moved over about three meters until he could still see his footprints trailing off in the blowing snow from the opposite direction. Then he walked parallel to his original path, mowing the lawn as if he was searching for an object beneath the sea. He took about sixty steps before his old footprints faded and disappeared m the snow.

He walked five lanes before he swung to his right again, repeating the pattern until he was sure he had retraced the now obliterated center line. Then he picked up the grid again on the other side. On the third lane he stumbled into a snowdrift and fell against a metal wall.

He followed it around two corners before meeting a rope that led to a door. With a great sigh of relief, Pitt pushed open the door, savoring the knowledge that his life had been in danger and he had won. He stepped inside and tensed.

This was not the living quarters, but rather a large Quonsetlike shelter covering a series of excavations in the exposed earth. The interior temperature was not much above freezing, but he was thankful to be safe from the gale-force wind.

The only light came from a Coleman lantern. At first he thought the structure was deserted, but then a head and pair of shoulders seemed to rise up from a trough in the ground. The figure was kneeling, facing away from Pitt, and seeming absorbed in carefully scraping loose gravel from a small shelf in the trough.

Pitt stepped from the shadows and looked down.

"you'ready?" he asked.

Lily spun around, more puzzled than startled. The light was in her eyes and all she could make out was a vague form.