They got out of the car and walked to the edge of the chasm. The steep sides dropped down for about three hundred feet to a rock-strewn stream.
“This is what the locals call Dead Man’s Ditch,” Baltazar said. “I had the bridge built to connect pieces of my property. I made some modifications in anticipation of your visit.”
“You didn’t have to go through all the trouble,” Austin said.
“Not at all. Here’s my proposition. I will place my car with Miss Mechadi in it on the other side of the ditch.” He pointed to the grassy field across the gorge. “I will be in the middle, playing the role of the mythical dragon. We will joust for the favor of the fair lady.”
Austin turned and looked at the pair of SUVs that had followed them. “What about your goons?”
“I will instruct my men to stay on this side.”
“You will allow us to escape?”
“I will give you a sporting chance, which is more than you have now.”
“And if I decline your invitation?”
“I’ll have you thrown into the gorge before your lady’s horrified eyes.”
“I don’t see how I can pass up a generous offer like that, Baltazar.”
Baltazar grinned unpleasantly and gestured for Austin to get back into the car. They drove at breakneck speed back to the main jousting area. He stopped to let Austin off in front of the tent. Squire was leaning on his crutches in front of the tent’s portal.
“Your man will see that you are properly outfitted,” Baltazar said. “We’ll be wearing only chain mail and a helmet. It wouldn’t be chivalrous to burden you with full armor. You will have a shield and a lance. The horses will be unarmored, which will make things go faster. See you at the tilt.” He gunned the engine and took off, with his tires spinning on grass.
Squire watched Baltazar drive away and told Austin to get in the tent. He helped him on with a coat of mail and handed him a tunic with no emblem on it. The chain mail hood had an opening for Austin’s face. Squire placed a knitted skullcap on Austin’s head and tried the helmet on for size. It was a little loose but would have to do, he said. He buckled a sword around Austin’s waist and fitted him with spurs. He handed him a kite-shaped shield.
Surveying Austin, he spread his lips in a jagged grin. “You’re no Sir Lancelot, but you’ll have to do. Sit down and I’ll give you some pointers.”
Austin removed the helmet and sat on his bunk.
“Listen carefully. Baltazar likes to do things in threes. He plays with you on the first pass. Misses you completely. On the second, he’ll deliver a glancing blow. Probably on the shield. The third time is the money shot. He’ll spit you on his lance like a pig. Any questions?”
“Tell me where I can pick up an AK-47.”
Squire snorted. “You won’t need one. Baltazar uses a lance with a metal core. He makes sure his opponents get the wooden lance, which will shatter on his armor and can be deflected by the shield.”
“That doesn’t seem chivalrous,” Austin said.
“It isn’t. This time, you’ll have the one with the metal core. I’ll give him a German-style lance made of heavier wood. Hopefully, he’ll be so anxious to kill you that he won’t notice the difference in weight.”
“Why are you doing this, Squire?”
The man brought his hand up to his bandaged face. “The bastard did this to me with his bogus lance. The doctors say I’ll look like Quasimodo. There’s not a pill in the world that will kill the pain from the damage to my legs. Forget me. Third pass is the money shot. He’ll go for your shield, thinking the lance will go through the leather and wood. Aim for his midsection. It’s the biggest target. Don’t miss.”
“What happens to you if I do?”
“It’s nothing to me. Either way, I’m outta here. Maybe I can get a job with a bank.”
A guard poked his head into the tent. “Time.”
AN SUV was parked outside the tent. Accompanied by another vehicle carrying guards, Squire drove Austin to the bridge crossing, where a carnival atmosphere prevailed. Bull’s-head pennants fluttered from temporary flagpoles. Word of the impending joust had spread among Baltazar’s mercenary corps. In addition to the ever-present guards, the edge of the gorge was lined with men in medieval costume who had gathered to see Austin speared or thrown to his doom.
“You didn’t tell me we were going to a party,” Austin said.
“Baltazar likes an audience.” Squire pointed to a couple of huge horses being led from their trailers. “Gray horse is Baltazar’s. The dappled one is yours. Name is Valiant. Baltazar wanted you on a nag, but I made sure you got a good mount. Val’s steady and sure. Won’t balk on a charge.”
Squire pulled up near the horse trailers. Austin got out of the SUV and went over to introduce himself to his mount. The animal seemed as big as an elephant up close. Austin patted the animal’s side and whispered in its ear. “Come through for me this one time, Val, and I’ll feed you all the sugar you can eat.”
The horse snorted and tossed its head, which Austin took for a yes. He went over to inspect the jousting bridge. Two horses passing each other on the narrow span would make for a tight squeeze. There would be no margin of error if he were knocked from his saddle.
Austin heard a cheer from the assembled crowd. The Bentley was speeding toward the gorge. It continued across the bridge, trailed by a black Escalade, and stopped around a hundred yards from the canyon. Baltazar got out of his car and opened the SUV door.
A figure wearing a white dress got out, accompanied by two guards. The figure got off a brief wave before being hustled to the passenger side of the Bentley. Baltazar and his guards drove back across the bridge.
Baltazar strode over to Austin. He pointed to the Bentley. “There’s your lady. I have fulfilled my part of the bargain. Now it’s your turn.”
Austin stuck his hand out. “The car key.”
Baltazar lifted the helmet tucked under his arm. A key ring dangled from one of the two metal horns that protruded from the crown.
“Yours for the taking, Austin. We don’t want to make this too easy.”
Austin said, “I’ll need a pen and paper.”
Baltazar snapped an order. One of his men ran to the nearest SUV and came back with a dashboard pad and attached ballpoint. Using the car’s hood as an improvised writing desk, Austin jotted down a series of directions and sketched out a map. He underlined the words Gold Mine.
Baltazar held his hand out. Austin stuffed the paper into his helmet.
“As you said, Baltazar, we don’t want to make this too easy.”
Austin knew Baltazar could order his men to rush him, grab the mine map, and toss him into the gorge. He gambled that Baltazar’s insane ego would not do anything to spoil the show he had arranged for his men.
“Time to prove your mettle, Austin.”
With a glower so hot it could have sparked a forest fire, Baltazar spun on his heel and marched over to his horse. He vaulted into the saddle with unbelievable ease. Baltazar’s squire was holding the reins. He was a big man, dressed in a scarlet hooded costume, with his back toward Austin. He turned and looked at Austin, who recognized Baltazar’s baby-faced killer. Adriano smiled and pointed to the Bentley.
The implication was clear. If Austin failed, Carina was Adriano’s for the taking.
Baltazar spurred his horse. He galloped across the bridge and wheeled his mount around to face Austin.
Austin went over to Val and pulled himself into the saddle. Austin was unaccustomed to the weight of the chain mail and was considerably less agile than Baltazar. Squire handed his helmet and told him to keep his head bent forward so he could see through the narrow eye slits.
Next he handed up the shield and the lance and instructed Austin how to hold them.
“Watch the pennant near the lance head,” Squire said. “It will tell you where the point is.”
“Any other words of advice?” Austin’s voice echoed inside the helmet.
“Yeah,” Squire said. “Let your horse do his work, remember the third tilt, and pray for a miracle.”
He gave the horse a light slap on its flank and the giant animal lurched forward. Austin tried walking the horse in a circle. Val responded well to knee nudges. The weight and fighting equipment were awkward, but the saddle was high in the back and offered some support.
The brief rehearsal was about to come to an end.
A man dressed in the Lincoln green costume of a herald at arms blew a blast on his trumpet. The signal to get ready. Austin brought his horse around to face Baltazar. The second trumpet blast was the alert to lower lances. The third blast followed a second later.
Baltazar dug his spurs in ahead of the signal.
Austin was only a second behind.
The horses accelerated to a rolling gallop that sent clods of earth flying into the air like startled birds. The ground shook as the massive animals and the metal-skinned creatures on their backs flew toward each other in a thundering charge.
NUMA 7 - The Navigator
Chapter 47
USING THE BUOY LINE as a guide, Gamay and Zavala had powered their swift descent with practiced scissors kicks. The lake’s surface clarity had been deceptive. The greenish brown tint had deepened into an opaqueness that cut visibility to a few murky yards. The soupy gloom quickly absorbed the twin cones of light from their electric torches and muted the bright yellow of their wet suits.
Several feet from the bottom they hovered to keep from stirring up a cloud of blinding silt. They consulted a compass, and swam west until a shadowy mass loomed in the murk. Their flashlight beams touched a vertical surface. Glimpses of flagstones were visible in the spinachlike growth carpeting the exterior of the two-story hotel. Fish darted through the glassless windows that stared out vacantly like eye sockets in a skull.
A Donald Duck voice crackled in the headset of Zavala’s underwater communicator.
“Welcome to the friendly Hotel Gold Stream,” Gamay said.
“Every room comes with a water view,” Zavala said. “Must be off-season. No one’s around.”
Although the building was not huge, the mansard roof and stone construction gave it grandeur beyond size. They glided over the wide front porch. The portico had collapsed. Green slime covered the rotting wood where guests of a bygone era once sat in rocking chairs to take in the fresh country air.
They peeked through the entrance. The darkness was almost impenetrable, and the cold emanating from the hotel penetrated their wet suits. They swam around to the rear of the building. Zavala pointed his light at a one-story addition built onto the backside of the hotel.
“That could be the kitchen and service area,” Zavala said.
“Good call,” Gamay said. “I think I see a stovepipe sticking out of the roof.”
They glided down a gradual slope, whose lawn had been replaced with freshwater marine vegetation, to a wide set of stone stairs. At the base of the stairs was a stone apron where the cave boats used to be kept. The granite mooring posts were still in place. The two divers plunged into the open maw.
The stalactites and stalagmites inside the cave had been worn down like the teeth of an old dog, and marine vegetation dulled their once-brilliant colors. Fantastic rock formations hinted at the strange world that once had greeted the eyes of turn-of-the-century tourists.
After swimming about a quarter of a mile against a slight current, they came to the end of the cave. The way was blocked by huge boulders. A cavity in the ceiling appeared to have been the source of the rockfall. Unable to explore farther, they returned to the mouth of the cave, making good time with the current behind them.
Minutes later, they were out of the cave and back behind the hotel. Zavala went along the outside of the service building until he came to a wide doorway. He made his way in, with Gamay right behind. The interior space was big enough to have been the dining room. Zavala swam along the walls until he found a door, and they entered the room. Their lights picked out empty cupboards and large slate sinks. A pile of rust in the corner might have been a cast-iron stove. They examined every square inch of floor. Nothing resembling a hatch cover came to their attention.
“I wonder if we’ve been ‘shafted,’ literally,” Zavala said.
“Don’t give up yet,” Gamay said. “The old kitchen worker was pretty specific. Let’s try that room.”
She swam through an opening into a space around a quarter the size of the kitchen. Shelves lined the walls, indicating the room had been a pantry. She dropped down until her face mask was inches above the floor, and, after searching for a short time, she found a rectangular raised section. She brushed away the silt and found hinges and a rusty padlock.
Zavala reached into a waterproof bag attached to the D ring of his harness and pulled out an angled pry bar around a foot long. He inserted the bar under the trapdoor cover only to have the rotten wood break into pieces. He pointed his light down the shaft. The blackness seemed to go on forever.
“I don’t hear you saying ‘Me first,”’ Gamay said.
“You are slimmer than I am,” Zavala said.
“Lucky me.”
Gamay’s reluctance was feigned. She was an intrepid diver and would have gladly arm-wrestled Zavala for the chance to find the mine. At the same time, she had done enough diving to realize she had to be extracautious. Cave diving requires an uncanny calmness. Every move must be deliberate and well thought out in advance.
Zavala tied a length of thin nylon line to the leg of a cabinet and the other end to his pry bar. He lowered the bar into the shaft, but it didn’t touch bottom, even after fifty feet were played out.
Gamay examined the wood-covered sides of the shaft. The wood was soft, but she thought it would hold. The shaft opening was about a yard square, which would allow just enough room for her tank.
Gamay glanced at her wristwatch. “Going in,” she said.
Her supple body slithered over the lip of the opening and she disappeared into the square black hole. The tanks gonged against the sides, dislodging pieces of wood, but the shaft remained intact. Zavala watched the glow fade as Gamay descended.
“What’s it like down there?” Zavala said.
“Just like Alice in Wonderland down the Rabbit Hole.”
“See any rabbits?”
“Haven’t seen a damned thing—hello.”
Silence.
“Are you okay?” Zavala said.
“Better than okay. I’m out of the squeeze. I’m in a tunnel or cave. C’mon down. There’s a ten-foot drop after you exit the shaft.”
Zavala slid into the opening and joined Gamay in a chamber at the bottom of the shaft.
“I think this is a continuation of the boat cave,” Gamay said. “We’re on the other side of the rockslide.”
“No wonder the hotel management was upset. The river would have carried the kitchen slops into the boat cave.”
Zavala took the lead again. He swam into the cave, playing his flashlight beam on the walls. The rock formations disappeared after a few minutes.
“We’re in a mine,” he said. “See the chisel marks?”
“This could be the source of the gold that the hotel guests panned for.”
Zavala probed the darkness ahead his light. “Look.”
A tunnel opening had been cut in the wall to the left.
They left the main cave to explore the tunnel. The passageway was about ten feet high and six wide. A barrel ceiling arced overhead. Alcoves had been cut in the wall for torches.
After about a hundred yards, the tunnel intersected with another at a right angle. The discussion of their next step was short but intense. They could be dealing with a labyrinth. Without a lifeline, they could quickly lose their way. The limited amount of air in their tanks could make the wrong decision a fatal one.
“Your call,” Zavala said.
“The floor on the right-hand passageway is more worn than the others,” Gamay said. “I say we follow it for a hundred ya
rds. If we don’t find anything, we’ll head back.”
Zavala crooked his forefinger and thumb in an okay signal, and they plunged into the passageway. They swam without talking to conserve air. Both were aware that each fluttering kick brought them closer to danger. But curiosity spurred them on until the tunnel ended, and they broke into the open after swimming about fifty yards.
The passageway had ended in a large chamber. The ceiling and opposite walls were beyond the range of their lights. They had come to the most hazardous part of their dive. It would be easy to become disoriented in a large open space. They decided to confine their exploration to no more than five minutes. Gamay would stay at the mouth of the tunnel. Zavala would do the actual exploration. At no time would one diver be out of sight of the other’s light.
Zavala struck out into the darkness, keeping close to the wall.
“Far enough. I’m losing you,” Gamay cautioned.
Zavala stopped.
“Okay. I’m swimming away from the wall. The floor is smooth. This room may have seen a lot of traffic. Nothing to indicate what it was used for.”
Gamay issued another warning. He turned back and homed in on her light. He followed a zigzag pattern that would cover the maximum about of ground.
“See anything yet?” Gamay said.
“Noth—wait!”
He swam toward an amorphous shape.
“You’re moving out of sight,” Gamay said.
Gamay’s beacon had become a smudged pinpoint. It would be suicide to proceed much farther, but Zavala couldn’t stop now.
“A couple more feet.”
Then silence.
“Joe. I can barely see you. Are you all right?”
Zavala’s excited voice came over the communicator. “Gamay, you’ve got to see this! Leave the torch to mark the tunnel and follow my light. I’ll wave it.”
Gamay estimated they had just enough air to navigate the tunnel, rise up the shaft, and make their way to the surface. “We don’t have much time, Joe.”
“This will only take a minute.”
Gamay was known to use salty language, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She placed the flashlight on the floor and swam toward the moving light. She found Zavala next to a circular stone dais about three feet high and around six feet in diameter. The surface of the platform was covered with rotten wood and pieces of yellow metal.
The Navigator Page 35