“That … that's a thing we need to watch for?” Hicks asked.
“Kotler said it was,” Denzel answered. “The Mayans were particularly good at very nasty traps. So move with caution.”
They finished briefing on the various tasks. Sarge and Wilson took over the efforts to track down the guerrillas and the statue, while Drs. Dawson and Ludlum returned to their portable bio lab to start on the ash samples. Dawson was more of a hold card at the moment, by Denzel's estimate. But he had a feeling her skills and expertise were going to be in high demand, very soon.
Denzel, Knoll, and Hicks left everyone to their tasks, shouldered their packs and SCUBA gear, and began their trek to the cenote.
They had walked for nearly half an hour, cutting through the rough undergrowth with machetes and hatchets, until they finally came to the rim of the cenote. They each stopped for a breath, sipping from their canteens and looking out over the natural stone rim to crystal blue waters below.
The cenote was a sinkhole, according to what Denzel had been told. It was formed when the limestone collapsed, exposing ground water. Denzel could see the jagged ring of limestone forming a near-perfect circle, all around, and dropping maybe fifty feet to the water below. It was oddly inviting—an oasis, of sorts, in the middle of a hostile jungle.
According to Knoll, this cenote connected to a series of caverns that ran under the jungle, as well as under the city itself. The hope was that there was a natural tunnel that may have been used by the Mayans as an escape route or secret entrance to the temple. If so, there could be a way to reach Kotler and Graham from this side. If not, then this was a tremendous waste of time. Denzel judged it to be worth the risk—they needed both Kotler and Graham, if they were going to figure out what Ah-Puch really was, and what threat it posed.
“We built a walkway down to the water's edge,” Knoll said, pointing down along the curved ridge. “That's where we refill the water tanks. It's an easy descent.”
“What about the caverns?” Denzel asked.
“There's a cave, close to where the walkway ends. We use it to store water pumps and other gear. It goes pretty deep. We didn't bother exploring all of it, but we spent a little time surveying it until we came to a flooded section. The caverns run in the direction of the city. Best shot of connecting to any tunnels or passages will be there, I think.”
Denzel nodded. “Ok, let's get moving. It's already getting dark, and I'd rather save the flashlight batteries for the caves.”
They started their descent, stepping their way down the wooden scaffolding that Sarge's men had constructed. It was sturdy, and well-anchored, despite having been built using felled trees and local stones and materials.
Denzel marveled at how resourceful Sarge and his men could be. They were all ex-military—likely war vets who couldn't figure out how to fit back into their pre-war lives. But they were putting their training and skills to good use, at any rate. For money, sure, but knowing Sarge there were limits as to what they'd do for that money.
Denzel had served with men like Sarge, when he was in Special Forces. They were rough and rugged, crass and crude. But they had a code. They served with honor. It wasn't always pretty, but it was often effective.
It was clear that Sarge felt personally slighted by the events of the past few days. The implication that there was a mole in his group had shaken him. But the guerrilla attack, and the theft of the statue that Sarge hadn't even known was there—those were insults added to injury.
If anyone could track down the guerrillas, it would be Sarge. Denzel just wished he knew for certain that Sarge's men could be trusted as much as Sarge himself. It was necessary to trust them, though. It was the only card Denzel had, at the moment. His resources were already being stretched, and with Kotler and Graham trapped in the tomb, trusting Sarge's men was the only play that made sense.
They reached the stone and gravel floor of the cenote, a shelf of about ten feet that dropped only a few inches at its edge, straight to the blue waters. They took advantage of this, each stooping to refill their canteens. For good measure, they each used the portable water filtration systems that Sarge and his men had brought along. These resembled stubby little bicycle pumps, with siphoning tubes attached. One end of the tube went into the water, and the user pumped water up and through the layered filter. Clean water poured into the canteen from a second tube.
In an environment such as this, it wasn't wise to simply trust water, regardless of how inviting and pure it looked.
Canteens refilled and the sun starting to set, they each straightened and tightened the straps of their packs. Denzel turned to see the cave now, opening in an irregular maw that led to deeper darkness within. The sunlight had faded to the point that everything was thrown into shadow, and the sounds of jungle life waking to claim the night started to intensify.
The old and familiar chest-clenching feeling came to him then.
His claustrophobia was generally manageable. He hadn't suffered from it all his life, in fact. Only since his service days.
While still in Special Forces, Denzel and his unit were ordered to track down and eliminate an Al-Qaeda cell that had entrenched itself in a series of caves and spider holes running like a maze under a village in Ghormach District, in Faryab Province, Afghanistan.
The orders were to infiltrate with a full press, deadly force authorized. Their objective was to shut down the cell and capture its leader, Abou Massad al-Habib. The Al-Qaeda leader had orchestrated a series of attacks in London, Paris, and Madrid, ordering embedded operatives to use any means necessary to kill as many people as they could, as publicly as possible. The result had been several attacks using stolen trucks and vans, mowing through crowds of people walking on sidewalks or in public parks. Other operatives used homespun bombs, stolen rifles, and even a military-grade RPG that had been smuggled into Madrid in a crate of imported auto parts.
The death toll was shocking. Worse, it crossed all borders. Nine Americans were killed in the attack in Madrid, alongside a Belgian family of five, and some fifteen Spanish citizens. In London, a five-year-old German boy was run down along with dozens of tourists and locals, totally 25 dead and 8 injured. In Paris, nearly fifty people had died as a van ran through the Parc du Champ de Mars. Al-Habib gleefully took credit for all of the attacks, going so far as to release Go-Pro footage streamed to him from some of the attackers, who had worn the devices as helmet cams as they plowed through pedestrians or detonated bombs.
The videos had sealed the deal for al-Habib was a prime target, and he was in high demand. Hundreds of operatives were on the ground, with orders to cut off the head of the snake—to bring al-Habib in alive, if possible, but to not lose much sleep if that objective failed.
This operation was part of an expansive and complex plan to smoke al-Habib out and dismantle his network. Denzel and his team were just cogs in the greater machine, but they were focused and ready, maybe even a little eager to get in there and clean out the rat's nest that al-Habib had put in place around himself.
Getting to the enemy, however, meant crawling on their bellies through miles of man-made tunnels.
The enemy, though, wasn't stupid.
Denzel and the rest of the men he served with were deep within the network of tunnels when they tripped a wire, detonating a series of charges buried in the tunnel walls. Four out of the nine-man team were killed instantly. Two were badly injured—one of which had lost an arm in the explosion, and was in danger of bleeding out. The rest, including Denzel, were buried alive, with seemingly no way out.
For five days, they scraped at the blockage in front of them using small shovels, and passing handfuls of dirt back, one helmet at a time. Denzel was the last in line, and was effectively burying himself a bit more with each load. But with nowhere else for the debris to go, there were few options.
Finally, on the fifth day, the men broke through, and one-by-one they crawled out of the tunnel—only to be confronted by the same Al Qaeda operatives t
hey'd been pursuing. As they emerged from the grit and sand, exhausted and injured, they were immediately engaged in a close-quarters firefight. Every remaining man was forced to take what meager cover they could find, but each was essentially out in the open, exposed.
All, but Denzel.
As the weapons fire had started, Denzel was still struggling to crawl the length of their excavation, to join the fight. He had to first extricate himself from the loose dirt and debris that he'd been piling around his legs and lower body, and this took some time. Finally, though, he was free, and he crawled with his weapon ready, inching his way to the crude opening so he could join his unit and fight back.
Their digging had destabilized the tunnel, however. Denzel was nearly out when the whole thing came down on him.
Pinned there, with only a small pocket of air and his arms and legs essentially pinned beneath the rubble, Denzel tried his best to stay calm. But after days of being trapped with his team, with water and food running short, and the strain and effort mounting, this last-second denial of liberty was too much.
Denzel started to freak out.
He'd never had issues with anxiety, but then he'd never found himself pinned under tons of earth and stone for days on end. He struggled, fought, clawed at the dirt until his fingers bled, but remained stuck. The panic started to grow until he could feel his heart pounding. He screamed, but knew that no one would hear him.
No one would ever hear him.
He would die here, alone and already buried, thousands of miles from home.
Anxiety shifted to panic, and panic became paralyzing and crippling. The air, which was literally in short supply, went thin, and Denzel felt lightheaded. The panic rose even higher, and despite the glow of his helmet light, the dimness grew. Darkness overtook him.
Denzel had no idea how long he'd been in that darkness. He had no memory from the moment his heart felt like it was going to explode, until the moment the soil ahead of him parted like the Red Sea.
A flashlight shone in on him, and there were the muffled sounds of voices. None of what they said made any sense to Denzel. He couldn't hear them. He couldn't even believe they existed. They were lies, he thought. They were some trick his dying brain was playing on him, a final cruelty at the end of his life.
Soon, however, the hole was widened and he was pulled free, rescued by another team that had been sent in to finish the mission.
Denzel was the sole survivor from his own unit. And after a month in recovery, including an intensive psychiatric evaluation, he was granted an honorable discharge from active duty. He left with no protest.
The experience had shaped him in more ways than he could account for, he knew. It had removed him from military duty, for certain, but it had then led to him working with the DEA, and then the FBI. It had also left a scar—a fear of tight spaces that sometimes overtook him.
He could breathe through it, most of the time. And he was aware that Kotler often talked him through it, helping him keep calm when the tightness started to take over and the light began to dim at the edges of his vision. Denzel knew that Kotler did this, though he was never sure how Kotler knew, instinctively, that it was necessary. It didn't matter. Denzel was grateful.
There were some times, however, when no amount of calming reassurance would do, and Denzel worried that this might be one of those times.
But Kotler and Graham were trapped in the tomb, and might be hurt or otherwise in trouble. Kotler was his partner, and his friend, but he was also an asset. There was no way Denzel was going to let any personal fear keep him from doing everything possible to bring two of his men home safely.
Just as Denzel himself had been rescued, he felt he owed the same to anyone else he could help. Particularly Kotler, who had been instrumental in saving the world on more than one occasion. Even if he did have a tendency to get himself kidnapped or trapped in tombs.
Denzel took several deep breaths, in through his nose, out through his mouth. It took some concerted effort, but the tension in his chest started to subside, his jaw unclenched, and his neck muscles relaxed. It helped, he knew, to have a sense of mission. He kept the objective in mind. Kept his focus on the task directly in front of him, instead of taking any notice of the confined space.
“Agent Denzel?” Hicks asked. He looked at Denzel with concern.
Denzel waved him off. “I'm fine,” he said. “Let's get moving.”
Chapter 18
Within the tomb, after hours of waiting near the entrance, Kotler and Graham finally doubled back to the antechamber. This was largely to confirm Kotler's suspicion, that the tomb door itself was a ruse—a decoy, meant to keep anyone from knowing the real location of the remains of Ah-Puch. As predicted, the ornate stone door remained as tightly sealed as it had all along.
“I'd bet that it's actually just carved into the stone of the wall,” Kotler said, brushing at one of the carvings in the door with his left hand as he held the flashlight in his right.
Graham nodded as he ran his fingers around the edges of the door. He paused at the chipped sections, where someone had attempted to pry the door open. These marks were at least five years old, Kotler knew, but because they had been preserved in the protective environment of the antechamber, they looked as if they might have been made yesterday.
“The seams go quite deep,” Graham said, almost to himself. “But I certainly wouldn't put it past the Mayans to build a cleverly constructed decoy.”
“Well, whether it's carved into the wall or not, we now know we can't get through here. We should go back to the main entrance, and wait for Roland and the others to work out a way to get us out of here.”
Graham didn't respond, and Kotler looked up to see him contemplating the tomb door in silence.
“Graham?” Kotler asked, concerned.
“We'll go to the altar,” Graham said.
Kotler frowned. “I don't think that's wise. Believe me, I want to explore that passage as much as you do, but our situation has dramatically changed. No power, no lights, and we're cut off from help and resources. The wiser choice is to go back to the entrance and wait.”
Graham laughed, and something about the sound didn't sit well with Kotler. It sounded … broken.
“Dan Kotler, the intrepid adventurer, afraid to explore a dark passage. I'm starting to believe your reputation may be clever fiction, Dr. Kotler. For all your clever observations and insights, you seem to lack the qualities that this work really takes.”
Kotler blinked, unsure exactly how to respond. He and Graham hadn't exactly had the best of relationships, but they seemed to have smoothed things out since Kotler had arrived here. Hearing Graham now, though, there were signs of something in his voice. Some trembling, barely hidden, that Kotler hadn't noticed before.
“What qualities are those?” Kotler asked. Keep him talking. Figure this out.
Graham was shaking his head, as if he strongly disagreed with some unspoken statement from Kotler. “Courage,” he said, his voice trailing slightly, fading to a whisper. “You lack courage.”
Kotler saw it now.
He wasn't sure how he'd missed it before, but it was plain now. And as Kotler thought about it, the signs had been there from the start. Ever since the fight with the guerrillas, two nights earlier. There had been subtle signs and, for some reason, Kotler had ignored them.
Graham was in shock—a sort of in-field PTSD. He'd been reacting to the fear of that night for the past two days, and Kotler had simply looked past it.
He cursed himself for it, but shifted back to here and now, focusing. He was watching Graham closely now, and there was something dangerous brewing under the surface of the man.
“You could be right, John,” Kotler said quietly, placating. “I've never been terribly courageous.” He moved slowly, circling Graham as the man looked to the carved stone of the tomb door. “A failing of mine,” Kotler said. “In light of that, maybe we could just wait by the entrance? Wait for the others to find a way i
n?”
Graham scoffed. “The way is open,” he said. “The way to Ah-Puch. We found it, Kotler! We … we can find a way out, through the tomb.”
Kotler studied Graham, and shook his head. “I'm sorry, Graham, but no. It's not safe. We can conserve the flashlight batteries if we make our way to the main door and shut the lights off. We can wait for the others to realize we're trapped in here, and they'll open the door from the outside.”
“You're assuming that it can be opened from the outside!” Graham shouted. Then, as if sensing his own distress, he calmed a bit, spoke quietly. “But the trigger on the inside is disabled. It's reasonable to assume the one outside has been disabled as well.” He shook his head. “I'm not willing to sit and do nothing. We're going down that passage, to the altar, and searching for a way out from there.”
Kotler shook his head. “No, Graham. I'm sorry, but we're not.”
“This site is under my authority,” Graham said. “I'm responsible for the safety of everyone who sets foot here. You'll do exactly what I tell you to do! Coward!”
Kotler stared at him for a moment, then walked away, intent on navigating his way back to the front entrance. He'd have to figure out a way to reason with Graham later, once they were in a reasonably safe place.
“Kotler, stop right now,” Graham said. “Kotler, I mean it!” There was the sound of clicks, metal clacking against metal. “Kotler, I will shoot you if I have to!”
Kotler froze, and turned slowly to face Graham.
He was holding a Sig .45ACP—the same weapon he had used in the firefight with the guerrillas, two nights earlier. He had it aimed at Kotler's chest, and though his hands were shaking, Kotler knew that at this range, he wasn't likely to miss.
Kotler raised his hands, slowly, holding them out in front of him.
“John, what are you doing?”
“You will not undermine me in my own site,” Graham said intently, his voice trembling slightly.
“That isn't my intention,” Kotler said. He watched Graham closely, alert to signs of tension and building terror. Graham wasn't given to this sort of thing, and Kotler had let his guard down. He inwardly kicked himself.
The Girl in the Mayan Tomb Page 17