by Alehandro
“Get out of my tent, Chauncy.” Dr. Sova turned away and buried his face in his hands.
Chauncy walked numbly to his own tent, barely noticing how dark it had become. Night fell and the hours passed slowly. Wide awake, Chauncy watched the glow of the campfires casting eerie shadows of the rebels on his tent wall. He could hear the quiet muttering of the men outside.
He lay there thinking how fast everything had come to an end. Here he thought he had a promising career with Dr. Sova and in a matter of minutes it was all over. The whole incident had crushed Dr. Sova’s ego. He had seen it clearly on the doctor’s face.
Chauncy’s wristwatch showed it was past midnight. He was never up this late. Though he was exhausted, he still couldn’t sleep.
Suddenly, he heard a strange noise that made him sit bolt upright on his cot. At first he thought it was one of the rebels, but they also became silent as the noise grew louder. It sounded as if an infant was crying, off in the distance.
The sound stopped almost as soon as it had started and silence descended again upon the jungle. Shrugging mentally, Chauncy lay back down. But the sound started again, louder this time. Soon it was a plaintive, wailing moan.
Chauncy leapt to his feet and unzipped the tent door with shaking hands. Expecting a rebel to shove a gun at his head, he peered through the door. The rebels guarding his tent didn’t even look at him as he poked his head out. They seemed, instead, to be frozen in place as the sound grew to a painful howl.
The rebels started chattering excitedly. Chauncy could now tell that the sound was coming from some distance, off in the dark hills. He shivered at another loud burst of wailing. Something very creepy was going on. The rebels reached the same conclusion and began to shout in confusion.
One voice rose above the others. “Es el espiritu del Rey Chac!”
It took Chauncy’s befuddled mind a moment to piece together the Spanish words. They think it’s the ghost of King Chac!
He tried to stifle a rising dread. He was not a superstitious man. He did not believe in ghosts.
But that sound.
Comandante Solis came running with machine gun in hand. “What’s happening here!” he demanded.
“It’s that strange sound coming from the hills. They think it’s the ghost of King Chac,” Chauncy answered.
The wailing began again in earnest.
Solis pointed his gun toward the hills and squeezed the trigger, letting loose a barrage of bullets. The rat-tat-tat of the gun echoed in the dark and eclipsed the wailing sound as he continued to shoot toward the hills at the unseen specter.
Dr. Sova rushed out of his tent flailing his arms, an angry scowl on his face. “What is the meaning of this shooting! You are going to kill us all if the bullets ricochet off of the temples!”
With a defiant sneer, Comandante Solis turned and looked at the doctor. “The men are descendants of the Mayans, they are very superstitious.”
The wailing continued. The rebels chattered loudly, frightened looks on their faces. Puffing his cigar, Dr. Sova stepped a few paces toward the perimeter of the camp, straining to see past the glow thrown by the lights. Past that glow, however, there was only deep darkness out in the jungle.
“It is probably the death screams of some pitiful dying animal in the jungle. Tell your men to stop being so stupid.” He then abruptly turned and walked back to his tent, grumbling to himself.
Chauncy secretly mocked the superstitious feelings of the native people, but later lying in the semi-darkness of his tent, Chauncy replayed over and over again the eerie wailing from the hills. His mind kept drifting to the skeleton of King Chac in the sarcophagus, imagining a malevolent smile on its ancient features.
No one in the camp slept that night, despite the fact that no more wailing was heard. When the sun finally rose, Chauncy joined Dr. Sova as he went to the breakfast table in the outdoor kitchen.
Comandante Solis walked up to them, his machine gun in hand and a large grin on his face. “Well, it looks like the king’s ghost gave up on us! Today we will take him away for good. As for you, my dear doctor, perhaps you will end up as a good tour guide in some museum. Ha-ha-ha-ha!”
Dr. Sova clenched his fist, but before he could answer a rebel came running up to the group.
“Comandante!” he yelled when he came to a stop, his face twisted with worry.
“What do you want?” Solis asked.
The rebel’s face turned from being twisted with worry to being contorted with pain. He attempted to step forward, but his gun slipped from his fingers and he gripped his stomach. Within seconds he fell to his knees and began vomiting violently on the ground.
Comandante Solis backed away quickly in disgust. “What the - ? Get this man away from me, now!”
Another rebel came to pull the sick man away, but he also grabbed his stomach in pain and began vomiting as he fell to his knees.
“You, too?” Solis yelled. He turned and ordered another of his men to move them, but that rebel also became violently ill.
The rebel looked up at his commander as he fell to his knees. “El espiritu del Rey Chac nos esta castigando Senor, por haber violado su tumba!”
Dr. Sova looked at Chauncy with wide, surprised eyes. “Ha! He thinks the spirit of the king is punishing them for violating his tomb. That is impossible! Let us not panic, Chauncy, there is a scientific explanation for these phenomena.”
Chauncy held his nose because of the stench of the vomit
Comandante Solis looked around with a terrified expression. He saw that, one by one, his men were succumbing to the mysterious ailment. His men were yelling and begging him to leave the site without King Chac’s remains, lest the king’s ghost kill them all.
“What is the meaning of this?” Solis shouted to no one in particular. A moment later a deep anger came to his eyes and he spun around and approached Dr. Sova.
Before he could speak, a look flickered across his face. Chauncy stared in horror as Solis began to cough. The commander tried to conceal his discomfort, but within seconds he, too, was on the ground vomiting.
Dr. Sova overpowered Comandante Solis and picked up his gun from the ground. “Chauncy, quickly, get a rope and tie up this swine!”
As they tied the commander’s arms, Dr. Sova ordered the other archaeologists and laborers to bind up the rest of the rebels. Within moments, all of the rebels were sitting inside the courtyard with their hands tied behind their backs. All of the men were looking at Dr. Sova. The doctor was going to dramatically make an example of Solis.
Dr. Sova lifted Solis by his shirt collar, forcing the commander to stand up in front of his men. Vomit dripped from his chin to his stained shirt. His face was contorted with pain.
Dr. Sova plucked a small vial from his shirt pocket and tapped it on Solis’ forehead. “You fool! Do you know what this is, Commander?”
Comandante Solis closed his eyes as the object was tapped against his forehead. Opening them again when the doctor had stopped, he glanced at the vial but didn’t answer.
“It is syrup of Ipecac in a concentrated form. Do you know what it does?”
Solis glared and shook his head.
Dr. Sova laughed. “Are you having trouble figuring it out? Ha, ha! Well, I will indulge you. In mild doses, this syrup makes you nauseated. In strong doses, it gives you horrendous stomach cramps and produces extreme vomiting seizures. Understand now?”
Now the commander’s expression would have melted ice. “So you are responsible for this?”
“Bang!” Dr. Sova said, clearly enjoying himself. “Did you hear that, ladies and gentlemen? Comandante Solis just had a flashing revelation! If you have not pieced the puzzle together yet, allow me to do it for you. I took advantage of your men and their natural disposition to superstition. All this time they thought it was the evil spirit of King Chac. This morning, via a bit of sleight of hand, I poisoned your water supply.”
“But what about the wailing in the hills, surely you could not have d
one that!”
Dr. Sova laughed again as he pulled a small black object from his pocket. “This is called a remote control, in case you did not know that. And this…” Dr. Sova held the remote in the air for all to see and then pressed a button on it.
Immediately a wailing sound cut through the air, reverberating from the hills.
“How did you do that?” Comandante Solis demanded in an incredulous tone.
Dr. Sova turned off the wailing sound and returned the remote to his pocket. “Many years ago I read an article about music therapy. It went on to explain how dairy farmers in the Midwestern United States would play music for their cows, such as Mozart, Beethoven, Bach and other classics. They noticed that the cows were actually producing more milk. So I thought to myself, why not do the same for my workers so they can be more productive?
“So when I first came to Palenque, I had special weatherproof wireless speakers installed in the hills that were linked to a CD player in my tent. I had planned to try playing classical music for them, but as time went on I became distracted with other matters and dropped the experiment. Last night, however, I covered my head in my bed sheets so as not to be overheard and I recorded these horrible wailing sounds. Even as I walked around the camp I was able to control the sounds with my remote - and Voila!”
A light went on in Chauncy’s head. “So, you didn’t mean what you said to me last night, Doc?”
Dr. Sova turned and put his hand on Chauncy’s shoulder, a soft smile on his face. “Of course not, sorry mon ami, but I did not want anyone to know in advance what I was planning. There is another language that does not involve the mouth, it is body language. I had to have you believe the ruse as well, otherwise the rebels may have read in your posture that it was a ploy. I certainly could not risk failure, could I? You see, I had already formulated a plan before descending the temple steps to meet the commander. I heard that he was prowling this area and I had already anticipated his visit.”
“Are you going to execute me?” Solis interrupted.
Dr. Sova turned to face the man. “No, of course not, that would only make you a martyr.”
“Are you going to turn me over to the authorities to be arrested?”
“No, that would make you a hero.”
“Then what are you going to do with me?”
“I’m going to expose you for what you are,” Dr. Sova replied with a hint of a smile.
Jumping onto a dining table, he explained in a loud voice that Comandante Solis’s real name was Raul Martinez, an imposter whose sole desire was to enrich himself by plundering archaeological sites. After a pause to allow that to sink in, Dr. Sova also explained that Martinez was not the least bit interested in fighting for the Mayan people because once he was finished with his plans he would abandon them and take the money.
Offering the rebels payment to help clean up the temple site, he explained that when it was completed they would be allowed to go free. In addition, he offered to have the Mayan priests bless the temple to rid the place of evil spirits and appease the gods in an effort to gain forgiveness for ransacking the tomb.
A large cheer arose from the camp when Dr. Sova ordered the rebels released.
With an angry expression, Dr. Sova turned back to glare at Martinez. “This is what you get for attempting to outsmart me! I hope you have learned a vital lesson, miscreant: nobody will ever outsmart me. Nobody! I will release you once we are done with this project. Do me a favor, will you? Take my advice, return to your parent’s house in Mexico City, and go back to school. Get some good grades and maybe - just maybe - you might make a good tour guide in some museum.”
Dr. Sova motioned to Chauncy. They walked in silence for a few minutes, watching the rebels begin helping reorganize the camp. The doctor paused and then spoke to Chauncy. “Let this be a lesson to you, as well, Chauncy. Use your brain to its maximum potential, use it fully and you will see that no man will ever outsmart you - ever!”
In time, King Chac’s remains and artifacts found their way into the Museum of Anthropology in Mexico City.
A book entitled The Mayan Mystery, Solved, authored by Dr. Sova and Chauncy Rollock was shortly thereafter seen on bookshelves, recounting how King Chac’s remains had been discovered; it quickly became a best seller.
They had promised each other that they would reunite to decipher the mysterious riddle on the steps that would lead them to the treasure of the Mayan King. However, Dr. Sova was having personal and legal difficulties with the Mexican government, besides the financial problems and marital strife created by his compulsive gambling. Seeking greater control over archaeological projects in Yucatan, the Mexican officials desired to have more control and oversight at all of Dr. Sova’s digs. Opposed, he insisted that he be allowed to work independently.
The result was a downward spiral of red tape, delays, bad temper and impatience.
Chauncy eventually became involved in his own projects. In time, Chauncy lost contact with the doctor.
Sova’s colleagues abandoned the notion that King Chac had commissioned his workers to carve a riddle on the temple steps. Once the remains of King Chac were taken away to the museum, they closed base camp and left Temple #22 to be refurbished for tourism.
The jungle reclaimed the temple steps, growing over the Mayan inscriptions. Their meaning was lost as Dr. Sova ceased communicating with the outside world. Chauncy assumed that, fed up with the bureaucratic stupidity he so hated, he had simply chosen to vanish.
In the study of Dr. Sova’s hacienda in Merida, deep in his computer files, lay the answer to the greatest riddle of Mayan history, forgotten.
Book Two: The Mayan Code
Chapter One
The sun’s morning light over Guadalajara found its inhabitants already hard at work, driving, bicycling or walking in every corner of the growing city. The rich, the poor, and the shrinking middle class scurried about, surviving by sheer will the many adversities faced by the Mexican people.
Above the urban hubbub, a helicopter made its way toward the city’s center. Since military aircraft crossed the sky almost daily, the citizens below paid little attention.
In the city’s center was the infamous federal prison, La Penitenciaria, or La Peni, as the locals called it. It was well known that La Peni was currently host to Jose Padilla Madrid, leader of one of the largest Mexican drug cartels. The prison itself was a converted castle. A leftover from the Spanish conquest, the gigantic structure was as large as a city block.
The helicopter, bearing its prominent military emblems, changed course and moments later was hovering above the courtyard. Guards in the turrets, more curious than alarmed, shouted questions among themselves. Outside the prison street vendors and other passersby paused and pointed upwards.
The guards’ questions were answered as two doors opened on opposite sides of the helicopter, and before they were fully extended, machine guns from inside opened fire.
Glass and concrete shattered as the helicopter concentrated its fire on the turrets. The frightened screams from the civilians below were barely heard above the ear-splitting burst of machine gun fire. While most of the guards fled, a brave few opened fire at the aircraft, their pitiful weapons drowned out by the helicopter’s own arsenal.
A small object was tossed from the aircraft. When it hit the ground, a bright light was accompanied by a thunderclap of noise that boomed through the other sounds. The few brave guards who had been shooting at the helicopter tumbled to the ground, incapacitated by the flash-bang. Two smoke grenades hit the courtyard and within moments the area was blanketed in acrid smoke.
Unseen by anyone, a black-clad man rappelled from the aircraft. The instant his feet touched the ground inside the courtyard he was on the move, deftly maneuvering the rocket launcher he was carrying into firing position. He dropped to one knee and fired at the iron gates leading into the interior hallway of the prison. The helicopter had stopped firing, and in the semi-silence the explosion was ear-shattering.
Strapping his rocket launcher to his back, he pulled out a pistol and sprinted to one of the cells blasted open by the last rocket. Kicking the twisted metal doors and removing a gas mask, he stepped inside shouting to the prisoner who had taken shelter beneath his cot.
“Are you Jose Padilla Madrid?”
“Si,” the prisoner responded, smiling as he stood up. Even in prison garb his aura of power wasn’t diminished.
“Come, Mr. Madrid. It’s time to check out of this hotel.”
Madrid donned the gas mask provided by his rescuer and followed him quickly into the hallway and through the haze in the courtyard. Less than five minutes after the helicopter had appeared over the courtyard Madrid was inside. The large guns rolled back, the doors closed, and the helicopter moved upward and disappeared from sight.
An hour later a black Ford pickup came to a stop not far from the prison walls, the lights on top flashing red and blue. A tall, thin middle-aged man stepped slowly and deliberately out. His olive complexion, thick graying hair and perfectly trimmed gray mustache were instantly recognizable to the onlookers, who moved aside as Captain Gustavo De Leon strode purposefully toward the gates.
Nicknamed “The Incorruptible,” he had a reputation for refusing to bend to the drug dealers’ wishes, even though he had been approached many times with lucrative - and very illegal - offers. His love for his country far exceeded any desire to attain riches.
A no-nonsense man who took great pride in his position, it seemed he always wore a scowl on his face. No surprise, for his job offered any reason to be happy. With serious crime increasing daily, he was broken-hearted that his country seemed to be caught in an evil vortex of violence.
As a captain of the Mexican military force, it was his responsibility to investigate the incident that had just occurred and assess the damage. As he neared the gates he shook his head, murmuring to himself. This was no small incident: in a matter of minutes the Mexican authorities had lost their most prized prisoner. The last thing he needed to hear was that the military had been involved in this operation.