The Mayan Secrets fa-5

by Clive Cussler

  The truck grumbled up the gravel drive and stopped in front of her. Men jumped down from the truck bed. They looked impressive to her, all carrying AK-47 knockoffs, most of them armed with fighting knives in sheaths. They stood in a wavering line beside their truck and looked at her expectantly. Russell and Ruiz jumped down from the cab and approached her.

  She said, “You sounded on the phone as though it went well.”

  “I guess it did,” said Russell. “We herded them outside and gave them the message.”

  “Good.”

  He spoke more quietly. “An old guy who claimed to be the mayor tried to make a speech about not signing. We shot him and hung his body from a tree. We said if anybody moved him before we came back in five days, we’d shoot some more.”

  Sarah clapped her hands. “I never would have thought of that. Brilliant. I’ll bet they were utterly terrified.”

  “It’s hard to tell. They were all sort of stony-faced.”

  “Well, watching the mayor rot for a few days should soften them up.” She turned to the men that had been with Russell. She said in Spanish, “You can all go along now, gentlemen. Mr. Ruiz will pay you while I talk with Mr. Russell. Mr. Ruiz, the money is in the black briefcase on the desk.”

  She and Russell walked toward her car, a black Maybach, which was parked a distance away. “Without you, my efforts and a considerable sum of money would have been wasted. I’m acutely aware of the hardships you’ve endured because of your work. You’ll be paid very well for everything. The trust you’ve earned will pay dividends.”

  “I hope the risk pays off for you.”

  “It’s essential that we succeed. These Indian peasants are sitting on a major Mayan site, and we’ll need a free hand to exploit it. They have to be removed quickly, before the word gets out and they become ‘a cause.’”

  “What I’m worried about is what happens after we’ve brought them here. Will San Martin let you keep what you find? His mercenaries make him stronger than we are.”

  “Trust me,” she said, “Diego needs me more than I need him. Being on land that belongs to me keeps him untouchable. And as long as you give me your loyalty, I promise you’ll be safe.” She stopped walking. “My driver is new, and I don’t know if I can trust him yet. If you have anything else to say, say it now.”

  In that moment of her immobility, frozen for two seconds, Russell saw many things — her beauty, which was something she possessed, just like her cars and land and bank accounts. And he knew that this chance to speak and change things was one he would never have after this moment. If he wanted out, the doorway was closing. When the two seconds had passed without his speaking, she turned and walked to the black car. She opened the door herself, sat in the backseat, and closed the door. Her face, even her silhouette, became invisible behind the tinted glass. The driver swung her car wide and brought it back along the gravel drive to the main road.

  SANTA MARIA DE LOS MONTAÑAS

  The whole town attended the funeral of the mayor, partly because of his heroic death. And Carlos Padilla had been a popular mayor because he did little except to fill out and sign the papers that had to be filed in Guatemala City each year. He was such a comfortable mayor, in fact, that there was some question as to whether he was still legally in office. There had not been an election in some years, and it was possible that he had not wanted to bother anyone with voting again.

  Father Gomez said the proper things about him during the mass and then led the villagers to the large churchyard, where their people had been buried for centuries, and placed him in the row created for this year’s dead. There, Father Gomez said the rest of the customary pronouncements and prayed that Carlos’s goodness, bravery, and unselfishness would make his soul quickly rise to heaven.

  While old Andreas, the mayor’s brother, took his turn filling the grave, Father Gomez asked the townspeople to return to the church for a meeting.

  When the people were all sitting in the church, or standing immediately outside where they could hear, he introduced Dr. Huerta.

  Dr. Huerta spoke simply and frankly. “We have spoken to the authorities in the government offices and embassies, and the earliest that help can come here is thirty days.”

  “But we have only five days,” a woman shouted. “What can we do?”

  “You can sign the paper and be taken to the Estancia to work in the fields or you can stay and fight. The choice is yours. But we saw those men shoot Carlos to death. I don’t know of any reason to trust them. Once they have you on the Estancia, with no place to hide and no means of fighting back, will they let you live?”

  There were cries of “We have to fight!” and “We have no choice!”

  “There’s a third way,” said Father Gomez. “We can pack everyone up and run away to another town. We can try to hold out there for a month or two and hope the government will act by then.”

  “All that will do is get two towns killed,” said Pepe. “And once we leave, they’ll take over everything, dig up the tombs, burn our houses and fields. We’ll never be able to come back.”

  Within minutes, the discussion was only a series of speakers who all said the same thing — running was futile and was more dangerous than staying. Signing away the town was unthinkable, and the only way to survive was to fight. At last, Dr. Huerta said, “It’s time to hear from Sam and Remi Fargo.”

  Sam and Remi had remained silent through the discussion, but now they stood. Sam said, “If you want to fight, we’ll do what we can to help. Tomorrow morning at seven, meet us in front of the church. If you have any guns and ammunition, bring them with you. We’ll begin to work out a strategy.”

  * * *

  At seven a.m., Sam and Remi sat on the church steps and waited. The first to arrive were a few of the hotheads who had helped capture Sam and Remi up on the plateau. Then came people who considered themselves to be part of the gentry — the business owners, independent farmers, and their wives, sons, and daughters. After them were others, people who worked for wages or helped on the farms for a share of the crops.

  By seven-thirty, the street was full of more people than it had been during the mercenaries’ roundup. Sam stood up and called the group to order. “Beginning with the people on this end of the street, form a line and come talk with us. After you have, then go wait in the church.”

  As people came to the steps to talk, Sam and Remi would interview them, always speaking Spanish now. “Do you have a gun? Let me look it over. Are you a hunter? What do you hunt? Are you a good shot?” When there was no gun, they would ask, “Are you healthy? Can you run a mile without stopping? Do you want to fight? If you needed a weapon to fight a jaguar, what would you reach for?”

  Women seemed to prefer to talk to Remi, possibly out of local standards of propriety. Her questions varied little. “How old are you? Are you married? Do you have any children? Are you willing to fight to protect them? Are you very strong and healthy? Have you ever fired a gun?”

  The older children, the teenagers, were the hardest to interview, but Sam and Remi persisted. All the armies of the past had relied on boys from fifteen to twenty to fill the ranks.

  By ten, they were alone on the steps. The town’s firepower amounted to seven rifles with about one hundred rounds each, eight shotguns with about one box of twenty-five shells each, mostly bird shot. There were seven handguns, including four .38 K Frame revolvers that looked like old police sidearms, Señora Velasquez’s old .38 Colt, and two .32 caliber pistols made for concealed carry.

  Sam and Remi stood, staring at the villagers, whose faces were tinged with hopelessness. “Thank you all,” said Sam. “Now we have a better idea of where to start. Your ancestors could not fight soldiers trained in modern tactics or go up against new technical weapons and neither can you. You, your wives and children would die within minutes of the first attack.”

  Remi could easily see a deep sadness in the villagers’ eyes, as mothers pulled their children closer and the men looked aroun
d at their friends and neighbors in frustration.

  Sam steeled himself against the impossible odds. He nodded at Dr. Huerta and Father Gomez. “Can I talk to you in the vestry?”

  They entered and sat down in the hand-carved chairs around the large Spanish-style table. Father Gomez spoke directly to Sam.

  “Do you have a strategy?” he asked.

  Sam shook his head. “Nothing I can guarantee.”

  “You have no plan, no strategy, to help save my people?” said Father Gomez coldly.

  “Nothing I can talk about,” asserted Sam.

  “What do you want us to do?” Dr. Huerta demanded.

  “Take your people up the mountain to the fortress and tombs.”

  Father Gomez glared at Sam. “I believe the villagers would just as soon die in their beds as be dragged down the hill to trucks that will carry them to the Estancia fields, where they would work themselves to death. And then there are the children. It will be like a concentration camp.”

  Remi, who had been standing in the doorway unnoticed, stared at Sam with stunned incomprehension. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Sending the villagers up to the old fortress is like giving them a one-way ticket to a slow death.”

  “The trucks can’t navigate the narrow trail up the mountain,” said Sam.

  “But a hundred men with deadly arms can’t be stopped with a few old shotguns,” Remi argued.

  Sam shrugged. “I see no other way out.”

  Remi stepped over to Sam and stared with anguish into his eyes. “Who are you?” she gasped. “You’re not the man I’ve known and loved.”

  He gave her a look of indifference she’d never seen before.

  As Remi turned to speak, Sam had walked from the vestry without looking back at his lovely wife.

  Chapter 30

  SANTA MARIA DE LOS MONTAÑAS

  The next day, the mothers, children, and the elderly were led by Remi to the ruined stronghold on the plateau. There they would gather hundreds of stones to throw down at the attackers if they tried to climb the narrow path up. Remi determined where the best locations were behind a rock-stack barrier to fire at any attacker who reached the top.

  Remi kept her mind off Sam’s strange behavior and directed her squad of women and children to make effigies of townspeople, stuffing clothing with leaves and brush. “If your son is firing a rifle, you want the enemy to waste ammunition shooting at the five or six dummies you made and placed around to protect him.”

  She had other people bringing empty bottles, cans of gasoline, and rags to the plateau and making Molotov cocktails. “If men are coming up the path, these will stop them for a time. And if it’s night, they’ll light them up so anyone with a gun can hit them.”

  * * *

  At dusk, Sam stood on the crest of the hill beside the ancient fortress, surveying the preparations the townspeople had made. He knew there were hundreds of human effigies, beginning on the trail to the ancient stronghold. There were pits from building the old rock barrier. Within the walls of the ancient fortress were enough food and water for the whole town for a couple of weeks, and there were shelters for the children. The whole perimeter had dummies at the ramparts, and the supply of rocks and Molotov cocktails was impressive.

  Sam was suddenly aware that Remi was standing next to him.

  “I can’t live without you,” she said softly. “Please don’t stay in the village and die there alone.”

  Sam shook his head and looked down. “I’ve never asked you to blindly follow my direction. I have to ask you now. Trust me.”

  She turned to him and looked for something in his eyes. “We’ve never had any secrets between us.”

  “I’m sorry, Remi. But I swore an oath many years ago that I have to stand by. And now I have to see this through.”

  “I know you have something up your sleeve. But will it work?”

  He ran his hand through her hair. “The final throw of the dice and I can’t even tell you what I hope is going to happen.”

  Sam looked up at the last of the sun-painted mountain peaks. “It’s time for me to go.”

  Sam put his arm about his beloved wife and escorted her to the head of the trail that led down the mountain.

  She buried her face in his shoulder.

  “You just can’t do this. I may never see you again.”

  His kiss was as gentle as a soft whisper. “I’ve made luncheon reservations at our favorite restaurant here in town.”

  After walking twenty feet through the fortress, Remi stopped to get a final look at her husband. But Sam was not to be seen. It was as if he had vanished.

  SANTA MARIA DE LOS MONTAÑAS

  At dawn, Sam walked across the road to the church and climbed the ladder to the top of the bell tower. His timing was on the money.

  He removed a pair of German Steiner 20×80 military binoculars and peered through the lenses at a dust cloud on the road about five miles away.

  Almost casually, he sat on a niche in the wall and watched the sunrise. Later, he stared at the approaching military convoy.

  Sam was not primed to fight. His job was to observe. He took a small old-fashioned handheld radio he’d borrowed from Dr. Huerta, adjusted the frequency, and pressed the call button.

  “Viper One. This is Cobra One. Over.”

  A voice, clear and sharp, came back almost immediately.

  “Cobra One. This is Viper One. I haven’t heard your voice in a long time. Over.”

  “Six years and seven months, to be exact.”

  “We’ve all missed you, Cobra One.”

  “Is that Viper Two?”

  “Two hundred meters on your left in an open space in the forest.”

  “You have been away a long time,” laughed Viper Two. “I remember you as the new kid on the block in the old days.”

  “You must know,” said Viper One, “the firm is stepping on important toes to fit this little tea party in the schedule.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” replied Sam. “And, I might add, I’m the only one on this side who knows the score.”

  “Okay,” said Viper One, “why don’t you tell us the score. Over.”

  “Roger,” said Sam. “A small army of men who work for a local drug lord are planning to come here to take possession of the town and ship the people to a plantation about twenty miles away and put them to work.”

  “That sounds like slavery.”

  “It is slavery,” said Sam. “And extortion and theft and kidnapping and murder. Once they have these people in their marijuana fields, nobody will ever see or hear from them again. Over.”

  “Nice to know we’re the good guys,” Viper Two cut in. “Hold on. I read a convoy of seven vehicles approaching up the road.”

  Sam added what he could see from his perch in the bell tower.

  “Each of the canvas-covered trucks is carrying twenty-five men, all armed with AK-47s. They’re escorted by two armored cars. One at the head of the column, the other bringing up the rear.”

  “We also see the convoy is escorted by two Mi-8 Russian-built gunships.”

  “How can you know everything in my sight when you’re behind a forested mountain?”

  “We’ve had many upgrades in our sensors since you were part of the gang.”

  Sam aimed his binoculars at the final turn in the road leading up to the village.

  “Viper One. They’ve reached the edge of the town and have stopped.”

  “Not surprised. There are no people in sight, living or dead. That must make them wonder.”

  “My wife and I herded all the villagers up the mountain to an ancient fortress.”

  The pilots and gunners in the Apaches adjusted their helmets with the monocle over the right eye. It was a revolutionary sighting system. The pilot or gunner could slave the chain gun to his helmet, allowing him to achieve accurate sighting on a target by making the chain gun track with his head movements, aiming wherever he looked.

  “Viper Two. This is
Viper One. We are clear to engage.”

  “Time to give them hell for breakfast.”

  Viper One turned the Apache in a sharp bank and then entered the main village square, hovering twenty meters off the cobblestones.

  Chapter 31

  SANTA MARIA DE LOS MONTAÑAS

  Amando Gervais and his copilot and gunner, Rico Sabas, sat side by side in the spacious cockpit of their Mi-8 Hip gunship, one of San Martin’s fleet of five helicopters.

  The Mi-8 was Russian built and was an oldie but goodie. Production had continued despite the fifty-one years since the first one took to the skies. Utilized by half the military forces in the world, the Mi-8 was considered the most successful design worldwide.

  Gervais lightly touched the collective control stick to raise the Mi-8 until it was five meters off the ground. At the same time, he eased the cyclic stick forward, slowly moving the Mi-8 up the rise and around the church and into the village square. Suddenly Gervais and Sabas froze, in a state of shock. Instead of a crowd of villagers with pitchforks and shotguns firing bird shot, Gervais and Sabas found themselves staring at an array of rocket launchers hung on the most malevolent, atrocious, and evil attack helicopter in the United States arsenal.

  To Sam Fargo in the bell tower, there was no more terrifying apparition than the AH-64E Apache Longbow helicopter, especially when viewed head-on. It looked like a giant, grotesque bug that could never fly.

  “Santa Maria,” muttered Sabas. “Where did that come from?”

  “It’s black with no markings,” said Gervais, barely above a whisper.

  “What’s it doing here?”

  The answer never came.

  They turned white and speechless when, in the blink of an eye, they saw a flash beneath the Apache an instant before they were blown to shreds.

  “Target removed, Viper Two.”

  “So I heard. Hold on. My target is locked and I’m firing.”