“Congress intends to remove one of the armed services by 2010?” Race said.
“By a secret Department of Defense minute dated September 6, 1993, and signed by both the Secretary of Defense and the President himself, the Department of Defense recommended to the President that by the year 2010, one branch of the United States military be made redundant.”
“Okay . . .” Race said, doubtfully. “And how is it that you know all this?”
Renée offered him a crooked smile. “Come on, Professor. The U.S. Navy isn’t the only navy in the world which secretly taps into other countries’ undersea communications cables.”
“Oh,” Race said.
“The basis of the Department’s decision was that war has changed. The old land-sea-air division of a country’s armed forces no longer applies to the modern world. It’s an anachronism from two world wars and a thousand years of hand to-hand combat. The decision then becomes which service goes?
“Ever since that time,” Renée went on, “each branch of the armed services has attempted to prove its worth, at the expense of the other two.”
“For example?” Race said skeptically.
“For example, the Air Force claims it has the Stealth Bomber and a unique expertise in air superiority fighting. But the Navy counters by saying that it has Carrier Battle Groups. On top of that, it claims that not only are its regular fighters and bombers as stealthy as the B-3 anyway, but also that they have the added advantage of a transportable landing strip. With a dozen Carrier Battle Groups, the Navy says, who needs an Air Force?
“The Army, on the other hand, claims it has specialized ground troops and mechanized infantry forces. But both the Navy and the Air Force counter this by saying that modern warfare takes place in the skies and on the world’s oceans, not on land. They say to look at the Gulf War and the Kosovo conflict—battles that were fought from the sky, not the ground.
“Add to that the Navy’s close affiliation with the United States Marine Corps. Since the Marines Corps’ existence is guaranteed by the American Constitution, they cannot he eliminated. And they have both ground and mechanized infantry capabilities, thus putting even more pressure on the Army to justify its existence.
“Hell, look at ICBMs. All three armed services maintain missile launch facilities: the Navy has submarine-launched systems; the Air Force air- and land-launched systems; and the Army land and mobile systems. When you add the Marine Corps’ tactical nuclear capability, you have to ask: Does a nation seriously need four separate nuclear missile systems when really only two—or even one—would do?”
“So who looks like being the loser?” Race asked, cutting to the chase.
“The Army,” Renée said simply. “Without a doubt. Especially when the Constitutional guarantee for the Marine Corps is taken into account. In every analysis I’ve seen so far, the Army has always come in third place.”
“So they need to prove their worth,” Race said.
“They desperately need to prove their worth. Or diminish one of the other services’ worth.”
“What do you mean, ‘diminish one of the other services’ worth’?”
“Professor,” Renée said, “did, you know that late last year there was a break-in at Vandenberg Air Force base?”
“No.”
“Some top-secret plans for the new W-88 nuclear warhead were stolen. The W-88 is a miniaturized warhead, state of the art. Six security staff were killed during the theft. The official investigative report into the break-in—and the subsequent media coverage of it—claimed that it was the work of Chinese agents. The unofficial report into the break-in, however, says that upon examination of the kill and entry techniques used, only one unit could have executed the crime. An Army Special Forces unit. Green Berets.”
Race shot a look at Van Lewen. The Green Beret sergeant just shrugged helplessly back at him. This was news to him.
“The Army broke into an Air Force base?” Race said in disbelief.
Renée said, “You see, Professor, the Army are working on a new miniaturized warhead of their own. The successful completion of the W-88 would have seriously undermined their own project—and provided one less reason to keep them around in 2010.”
Race frowned. “So how do we apply this to the Supernova project?”
“Simple,” Renée said. “The Supernova is the ultimate weapon. Whichever armed service controls its use will ensure its survival in 2010. Quite obviously, although the Supernova is officially a Navy project, the Army has taken it upon itself to build its own device—in all likelihood using information that they have managed to obtain from a source inside the Navy project.”
“But no one has any thyrium yet,” Race said.
“Which is why everybody’s down here looking for that idol.”
“Okay, so let me get this straight,” Race said. “Even though the Supernova is officially a Navy project, the Army has been secretly constructing its own device. Then, when it discovers that there might be a source of thyrium out there, it gives Frank Nash and the Special Projects Unit the task of finding that thyrium before the Navy does.”
“That’s correct.”
“Goddamn,” Race breathed. “How far up does a thing like this go?” He was thinking about yesterday’s motorcade out of New York. For someone to make that happen required some serious rank.
“All the way up,” Renée said in a low voice. “All the way to the highest-ranking officers in the U.S. Army hierarchy. And that’s what really scares me. I’ve never seen the Army so desperate. I mean, God, look at this mission. This is it. This is the home run. If the Army gets that stone”—she nodded at the idol on the empty seat next to Race—“they guarantee their future existence. And that means that Frank Nash will do anything to get it Anything at all.”
Race picked up the idol. It glistened in his hands, the rapa’s head snarling with menace.
He just stared at it sadly, looked at the newly hollowed-out section in its base.
“Then I guess there’s really only one problem, then, isn’t there?” he said.
“What’s that?” Renée said.
“This idol.”
“What about it?”
“You see, that’s the thing,” Race said. “This idol isn’t made of thyrium. This idol is a fake.”
“It’s a what?” Renée gasped.
“It’s a fake?” Van Lewen echoed.
“It’s a fake,” Race confirmed. “Here, take a look.” He tossed the gleaming black idol to Van Lewen. “What do you see?”
The big sergeant shrugged. “I see the Incan idol that we came here to get.”
“Do you?” Race leaned forward, grabbing a water canteen that hung off Van Lewen’s belt. “Can I borrow this?”
He quickly unscrewed the lid and tipped the contents of the canteen onto the idol.
Water splashed all over the rapa’s head, ran down its face, dribbled down onto the floor of the plane.
“Okay, so . . . ?” Van Lewen said.
“According to the manuscript,” Race said, “when the idol gets wet, it’s supposed to emit a low humming noise. This one isn’t making a sound.”
“So?”
“So it’s not made of thyrium. If it were made of thyrium, the oxygen in the water would make it resonate. This isn’t the real idol. It’s a fake.”
“But when did you know?” Renée asked.
Race said, “When I took this idol off the workbench a couple of seconds before the cabin blew, the sprinkler system inside the control booth was dousing the whole room with water. It splashed all over the idol, but ever since that time it hasn’t hummed at all.”
“So the Nazis’ Supernova wouldn’t have destroyed the world?” Van Lewen said.
“Nope,” Race said. “Just us, and maybe a few hundred hectares of rainforest with the nuclear blast. But not the world.”
“If it isn’t made of thyrium,” Van Lewen said, “what is it made of?”
“I don’t know,” Race said. �
��Some kind of volcanic rock, I guess.”
“If it’s a fake,” Renée said, taking the idol from Van Lewen, “then who made it? Who could have made it? It was found inside a temple that no one’s been inside for over four hundred years.”
“I think I know who made it,” Race said.
“You do?’
He nodded.
“Who?” Renée and Van Lewen asked at the same time. Race held up the leather-bound manuscript in his hand—the original Santiago Manuscript—the same manuscript that Alberto Santiago himself had once labored over a long, long time ago.
“The answer to that question,” he said, “lies in the pages of this book.”
Race retired to the rear section of the little seaplane.
They would arrive back at Vilcafor soon. But before they did, he wanted to read the manuscript—to read it right to the end.
There were so many questions he wanted answered. Like when Renco had substituted a fake idol for the real one, or how he had got the rapas back into the temple.
But most of all—more importantly than anything else—he wanted to know one thing.
Where the real idol lay.
Race settled into his seat at the back of the plane. Just as he was about to open the manuscript, however, he saw the emerald pendant hanging from his neck—Renco’s pendant—and took it in his hand. He ran his fingers over the stone’s glistening green edges. As he did so, he thought about the skeleton from which he had taken the leather neckpiece earlier that day—the filthy battered skeleton that he had found just inside the temple.
Renco . . .
Race blinked out of it, tried not to think about it. He released the emerald and collected his thoughts. Then he found the spot in the manuscript where he had last left the story:
Alberto Santiago had just saved Renco’s sister, Lena, from the rapas, after which Lena had told Renco that the Spaniards would be arriving at Vilcafor by daybreak . . .
FOURTH READING
Renco stared at Lena for the longest of moments.
“Daybreak,” said he, repeating her words.
It was still dark outside, but it would be morning in a matter of hours.
“That is right,” said Lena.
In the dim firelight of the citadel, I could see the thoughts as they crossed Renco’s face—his mission to save the idol conflicting with his desire to help the people of Vilcafor in their time of dire need.
Renco looked across the interior of the citadel. “Bassario,” said he and sharply.
I turned to see Bassario sitting cross-legged on the floor in a darkened corner of the citadel, his back to the room as usual.
“Yes, O wise prince,” the criminal said, not looking up from what he was doing.
“What progress have you made?”
“I am almost finished.”
Renco strode over to where the devious criminal was sitting. I followed.
Bassario turned as Renco arrived at his side, and I saw on the floor beside him the idol that it was our sworn mission to protect. Bassario then offered Renco something to ap-praise.
When I saw what it was, I stopped dead in my tracks.
Then I blinked my eyes twice and looked again for I was sure that they were playing a trick on me.
But they were not.
They most certainly were not.
For there in Bassario’s hands, right before my eyes, was an exact replica of Renco’s idol.
Of course, Renco had planned it all, conceived it from the very beginning.
I remembered our brief stop in the quarry town of Colco very early in our journey, remembered seeing Renco obtain a sack full of sharp-edged objects. And I distinctly remembered wondering at the time why we were wasting our precious time collecting rocks!
But now I understood.
Renco had obtained a collection of rocks from the quarry which had most imitated the strange black-and-purple stone from which the idol had been carved.
Then he had given those stones to the criminal Bassario and commissioned him to carve an identical copy of the idol with which, presumably, he would bamboozle Hernando.
It was brilliant.
I also realized then what Bassario had been doing throughout our journey, at those times when he would skulk off to a corner of our camp and huddle over a small fire with his back to us.
He had been carving his copy of the idol.
And truly, it must be said, what a remarkable copy it was. The snarling jaws of the cat, the knifelike teeth. All of it carved out of a most lustrous kind of black-and-purple stone.
And for a moment, all I could do was stare at the false idol and wonder what kind of master criminal Bassario had been.
“How long until you are finished?” Renco inquired of Bassario. As Renco spoke, I noticed that the replica still required some finishing touches around the cat’s jawline.
“Not long,” the criminal answered. “It will be done by dawn.”
“You have half that time,” said Renco, turning away from Bassario and looking at the assembled group of survivors gathered behind him in the citadel.
It did not give him much hope.
Before him stood Vilcafor—old and vain and frail—and seven Inca warriors, those who had been lucky enough to be inside the citadel when the rapas had first attacked. In addition to the seven warriors, however, Renco saw only an assortment of frightened-looking older men, women and children.
“Renco,” I whispered. “What are we going to do?”
My brave companion pursed his lips in thought. Then he spoke thusly: “We are going to put an end to all this suffering. Once and for all.”
And with that, while Bassario worked feverishly to finish his replica of the idol, Renco began to organize the surviving members of Vilcafor.
“Now listen,” said he as they gathered around him in a tight circle, “the gold-eaters will be here by sunrise. By my reckoning, that gives us less than two hours to prepare for their arrival.
“Women, children and older kin—you will enter the quenko under the direction of my sister and get as far away from the village as possible.
“Warriors,” he said, turning to face the seven surviving warriors of the village. “You will come with me, to this temple that Vilcafor speaks of. If these rapas come from within that building, then we will just have to put them back inside it. We shall lure them into the temple with the song of the wet idol and then we shall shut them back inside it Now go, gather together whatever weapons you can muster.”
The warriors hurried off.
“Lena,” said Renco.
“Yes, brother?” His beautiful sister appeared at his side. She smiled at me as she arrived, her eyes gleaming.
“I’ll need the largest bladder you can find,” said Renco. “Filled with rainwater.”
“It will be done,” said Lena, hastening away.
“What about Hernando?” I inquired of Renco. “What if he arrives while we are engaged in returning the rapas to their lair?”
Said Renco, “If, as my sister reports, he is following us with Chanca trackers, then as soon as he arrives here, he will know in which direction we have gone. Trust me, good Alberto, I am counting on such action. For when he finds me, he shall find an idol with me . . . and by my word, I shall give him that idol.”
“Hernando is a cold, callous man, Renco,” said I, “vicious and remorseless. You cannot expect honor from him. Once you give him the idol, he will kill you for sure.”
“I know.”
“But then why—”
“My friend, what is the greater good?” said Renco softly. His face was kind, his voice calm. “That I live and Hernando gets my people’s idol? Or that I the and he gets a worthless replica of it?”
He smiled at me. “Personally, I would rather live, but I am afraid that there is more at stake here than just my life.”
The citadel became a hive of activity as the people of Vilcafor went about preparing themselves for what was to come.
; Renco himself went off to brief the town’s warriors more fully. As he did so, I took the opportunity to join Bassario for a short while and watch him fashion his replica of the idol. Truth be told—and God forgive me for this—I had an ulterior motive for speaking to him.
“Bassario,” I whispered hesitantly, “does . . . does Lena have a husband?”
Bassario shot me an impish grin. “Why, monk, you old rascal . . .” said he in a full voice.
I begged him in hushed tones not to speak so loudly. Bassario, as one would expect of such a rogue, was highly amused.
“She once had a husband,” said he eventually. “But their marriage ended many moons ago, before the arrival of gold-eaters. Lena’s husband’s name was Huarca and he was a promising young warrior, and their marriage—insofar as an arranged marriage can be—was viewed as one of great promise, little did anyone know, however, that Huarca was prone to fits of rage. After the birth of their son, Huarca began to beat Lena savagely. It was said that Lena would endure these beatings in order to protect Mani from his father’s fury. Apparently she succeeded in this aim. Huarca never beat the boy once.”
“Why did she not leave him?” I inquired. “After all, she is a princess of your people—”
“Huarca threatened to kill the boy if Lena told anyone about the beatings.”
Good Lord, I thought
“So what happened then?” I inquired.
“It was all uncovered by accident, really,” said Bassario. “One day Renco called on Lena unexpectedly—only to find her cowering in a corner of her home, cradling her son in her arms. She had tears in her eyes and her face was bloody and bruised.
“Huarca was captured immediately and sentenced to death. I believe he was ultimately dropped into a pit with a pair of hungry jungle cats. They tore him limb from limb.” Bassario shook his head. “Monk, the man who beats his wife is the lowest form of coward—the lowest form. I should think Huarca met a fitting end.”
I left Bassario to his work and repaired to a corner of the citadel to ready myself for the coming mission.
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