Lost Empire

by Cussler, Clive;Grant Blackwood

  As if on cue, the current died away until the dhow was skimming ahead at a walking pace. The inlet widened out slightly, leaving fifteen feet on both beams.

  “Haul anchor,” Sam called. “I think we’re okay.”

  Remi retrieved the Danforth and returned to the cockpit. From the banks came the sounds of the jungle easing into twilight: the plaintive squawks of parrots, the croaking of frogs, and the buzz of insects.

  “It’s so peaceful,” Remi said, looking around. “A little spooky but peaceful.”

  Sam grabbed the map from its compartment and unfolded it on the roof of the cabin. Remi clicked on a flashlight. Sam skimmed his index finger around the island. “We need the circumference.”

  Remi retrieved the dividers and walked them around the coastline, occasionally marking headlands and landmarks with a pencil. Once done, she scribbled some calculations in the margins, then said, “Big Sukuti is nine miles, give or take. Little Sukuti, about five.”

  Sam studied his watch for a moment. “We’ll reach the other mouth in twenty minutes. If that Rinker makes another patrol right away, it’ll be passing the northern side of this inlet about twenty minutes after that. If it doesn’t show up, it probably means no more patrols for the night or they’re only doing them every few hours.”

  “That’s a big if,” Remi replied. “If the latter, it means we might run into them somewhere along the coastline. We’d better hope we see them before they see us.”

  Sam nodded. “Do me a favor. Find every nook and cranny along the coast. We’ll need to be ready to hide on a moment’s notice.”

  It took Remi ten minutes to finish the task. She said, “There’re plenty to choose from but no depth markings; I can only be certain of six or seven being deep enough for our draft.”

  “We’ll have to play it by ear.”

  “So, about your master plan . . .”

  “Wish I had one,” Sam replied. “There’re too many variables. We have to assume they’ll be moving the bell sooner rather than later—either shipping it somewhere or dumping it somewhere. For that, they have three choices: one of the Rinkers, the Njiwa, or Okafor’s helicopter. We’ll start with the Njiwa. Whatever they do, that’s where the bell will stay until they decide to move it. If they use a Rinker or the Njiwa, I say we put on our pirate hats and stage a hijacking.”

  “And if it’s the helicopter?”

  “Same plan. We just put on our flying scarves.”

  “Sam, my dear, you don’t have much time logged on helicopters.”

  “I think I can manage the four or five miles to the mainland. We’d be across the channel in six minutes—probably before they could even organize a posse. We find a secluded clearing somewhere, put her down, and—”

  Remi smiled. “Play it by ear?” Sam shrugged and smiled back. “It’s the best chance we have,” Remi agreed, “but you’ve left out a lot of big, potentially disastrous ifs.”

  “I know—”

  “For example, what if we’re spotted? We’ll be outgunned and outmanned.”

  “I know—”

  “And, of course, the biggest if: What if the bell’s already been moved?”

  Sam paused. “Then the game’s over. If we don’t intercept it here, it’s gone for good. Remi, we’re a democracy. If it’s not unanimous, we don’t go.”

  “I’m in, Sam, you know that. On one condition, though.”

  “Name it.”

  “We take out some insurance.”

  THE SUN WAS SETTING by the time the mouth of the inlet came into view: a rough oval of golden orange light at the end of the tunnel. When they were ten feet away, Remi steered the dhow toward the right-hand bank and jostled the throttle until the overhanging limbs draped over them. Standing atop the cabin, Sam manhandled the thicker branches around the mast and boom until the dhow was nestled against the bank. He crawled forward to the pulpit and peeked through the foliage.

  “Got a perfect view,” he called back.

  The sun had dropped behind Big Sukuti, casting the western half of the island, including the inlet, in twilight. Sam added, “If they’re doing another circuit, they’ll be here in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “I’m going to pack our gear and do some scrounging.”

  Remi went below. Sam could hear her moving about in the cabin. She returned to the cockpit, sat down, and began humming “Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra. They got through “Hotel California” by the Eagles, “In the Midnight Hour” by Wilson Pickett, and were halfway through “Hey Jude” by the Beatles when Sam raised his hand for silence.

  Ten seconds passed.

  “What is it?” Remi asked.

  “Nothing, I guess. No, there . . . Hear it?”

  Remi listened for a few moments, then there it was, the faint rumble of a marine engine. “The pitch sounds right,” she said.

  “It’s coming from the northwest. Our guest may be en route.”

  Of the scenarios they’d considered—a delayed second patrol, meeting the Rinker along the northern coast, or an immediate patrol that would pass before they headed out from the inlet—the third was ideal. By knowing the Rinker’s route and its average speed, they could be reasonably sure of their foe’s location at any given time. Barring the unforeseen, they would reach the docks long before the Rinker did.

  Lying on his belly, binoculars raised, Sam kept his eyes focused on the headland a quarter mile away. The grumble of the engine grew in intensity until finally the Rinker’s bow appeared. As expected, it was occupied by a driver and a spotter; also as expected, the boat turned southeast, following the coastline.

  A spotlight glowed to life.

  “We’re okay,” he said, half to himself, half to Remi. “They won’t see us unless they’re on top of us.”

  “Odds?”

  “Ninety-five percent. Maybe ninety.”

  “Sam . . .”

  “We’re okay. Keep your head down and cross your fingers.”

  The Rinker kept coming. It was now a hundred yards from the inlet and heading straight for them, the spotlight skimming along the bank and over the trees.

  “Anytime, boys,” Sam muttered. “Nothing to see here . . . Move along . . .”

  The Rinker closed the gap to fifty yards.

  Forty yards.

  Thirty yards.

  Sam took one hand off the binoculars, slowly reached backward, and grabbed the H&K from the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. He brought the gun up and laid it on the deck beneath his shoulder. He flicked off the safety.

  The Rinker was twenty yards away.

  Sam whispered, “Remi, you better get below.”

  “Sam—”

  “Please, Remi.”

  He felt the dhow rock slightly as she crept down the ladder.

  Sam lowered the binoculars. He wiped his right palm on his pant leg, then grabbed the H&K, extended it through the branches, and took aim on the shadowed form behind the Rinker’s wheel. Sam let the scenario play in his head: driver first, then the spotlight, then the second man before he had a chance to take cover or return fire. Two shots for each, then pause and wait for signs of life.

  The Rinker kept coming.

  Sam took a deep breath.

  Suddenly the Rinker’s engine revved up. The bow rose up and pivoted to port, and within five seconds the boat disappeared from view.

  Sam exhaled. He knocked twice on the cabin’s roof. A few seconds later Remi whispered, “Clear?”

  “Clear. Check the map. How long until they clear the northern tip of Little Sukuti?”

  There came the crinkle of paper in the darkness, followed by the scratching of a pencil. Remi said, “It’s a little over a mile. Twenty-five minutes and we should be okay.”

  FOR SAFE MEASURE, they let thirty minutes pass before shoving off and motoring out of the inlet. For the next forty minutes they glided along the northern shoreline, never straying more than fifty feet from the beach and never exceeding a quiet but frustrating three miles per hour. />
  Leaning over the map on the deck, penlight clamped between her teeth, Remi was walking the dividers. She looked up, took the penlight out of her mouth. “The Rinker should be reaching the southern tip of Little Sukuti. We’ve got at least twenty minutes on them.”

  They reached Big Sukuti’s northern tip, paused there for a binocular scan of the coastline ahead, then set out again.

  “The docks are less than a mile away,” Remi told Sam.

  “What do you think? Stop at half a mile?”

  “Sounds good.”

  They covered the distance in twelve minutes. To port, the island’s sloped moonscape rose from the beach to meet the rain forest. Sam slowed the dhow as Remi scanned the shoreline.

  “This looks good here,” she said, then scrambled to the bow.

  Sam turned to port, aimed the bow at the beach, and followed Remi’s curt directions until she called, “All stop.”

  Sam throttled down, then collected their packs from the deck and met Remi at the pulpit. She lowered herself over the side, then Sam grabbed her wrists and lowered her the rest of the way. The water was waist-high. He handed down their packs.

  “Come here,” Remi said.

  “What?”

  “Come here, I said.”

  He smiled, then leaned his head over the side until she could crane her neck and kiss him on the cheek. She said, “Be safe. No drowning allowed.”

  “Noted. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  THE NEXT PART of their plan turned out to be anticlimactic. Sam reversed the engines, brought the bow around, and took the dhow a few hundred yards off the coast, then turned off the engine and dropped anchor. He estimated there was fifty feet of water beneath the keel. He went below and opened each of the dhow’s five scuttle valves. When the water reached his calves, he went topside and dove over the side and began swimming. Five minutes later he stood up in the shallows and waded ashore to where Remi was waiting.

  Together they watched the dhow settle into the water and sink from view.

  Sam gave it a salute, then said, “Ready?”

  Remi nodded. “Lead on.”

  CHAPTER 18

  BIG SUKUTI ISLAND

  WITH SAM IN THE LEAD THEY WALKED IN SILENCE FOR FIFTEEN minutes, keeping to the harder wet sand until they came upon a twenty-foot-high rock outcropping bisecting the beach. Sam scaled up the slippery rocks, found a flat spot below the ridge, and peeked over. After a few seconds he turned and motioned for Remi to join him.

  Together they poked their heads above the rocks. A few hundred yards down the beach they could see the dock jutting into the water. On one side the Njiwa was still moored, her interior cabin lights glowing yellow through sheer curtains; opposite her, both Rinkers were tied up as well. There was no sign of either the driver or passenger.

  “They must have cut a few corners to get back so quickly,” Remi said.

  “They probably move at a pretty good clip along the southern side. With the Big Eyes we saw on the roof earlier, nobody’s going to be sneaking up from that direction.”

  “And at least we know where everyone is,” Remi added. “I don’t see any activity. You?”

  “Nothing. We’ve got two choices, by land or by water.”

  “There’s too much loose rock on the slope and no cover,” Remi said.

  “Agreed. Water it is.”

  “How’re we getting aboard the Njiwa?”

  Sam zoomed his binoculars until he could see the yacht’s companion ladder. While it was less than five feet tall, its head was attached to the deck right in front of the cabin’s sliding door.

  “Not by the ladder,” Sam said. He thought for a moment. “Back on the dhow I saw a sea anchor in the cabin—”

  Remi reached over her shoulder and patted the backpack. “In here. Improvised grappling hook?”

  “You read my mind. We hook the stern rail and shimmy up.”

  They climbed back down to the sand, then waded into the surf and set off, perpendicular to the beach, in a quiet, energy-efficient breaststroke. Once they’d covered fifty yards, they turned south, parallel to the beach, until they drew even with the dock. They stopped and treaded water.

  “Movement?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t see any.”

  “Head for the Rinker.”

  They set out again, arms sweeping them forward, their eyes scanning the dock area for movement. Soon they reached the Rinker’s transom. They took a moment to catch their breath, listening and looking. From the Njiwa’s cabin they heard muffled voices, then a pounding sound. Silence. More pounding.

  “Someone’s hammering,” Sam whispered. “Touch that engine.”

  Remi touched the Rinker’s outboard with the back of her hand. “Cold. Why?”

  “This one will have more gas. Wait here. Time for our insurance policy.”

  He took a breath, ducked under, and swam alongside the first Rinker to its twin at the head of the dock. He grabbed the gunwale, chinned himself up, and looked around. No movement. He boosted himself over the side onto the deck, then crawled forward to the driver’s seat. He checked the ignition. Not surprisingly, the keys were missing. He rolled onto his back, opened the maintenance hatch beneath the dashboard, and wiggled inside. He clicked on his penlight and studied the wiring bundle.

  “Just like old times,” Sam muttered. Five months earlier he’d found himself doing the same thing with another speedboat on a lake in the Bavarian Alps. Luckily, like that boat’s, this Rinker’s wiring was simple: ignition, wipers, navigation lights, and horn. Using his Swiss Army knife, Sam severed each wire, taking as much length as he could. He rolled them into a tight ball and tossed it over the side, then wriggled back out and closed the hatch. He crawled back to the gunwale, did a quick check, then rolled back into the water and returned to Remi.

  “Okay, if all goes well, this’ll be our getaway boat. We grab the bell, disable the Njiwa if we can, then bring the bell back here—”

  “How?”

  “I’ll manage it somehow. We’ll worry about the hernia later. We bring the bell back here and slip away before anyone knows what’s happened.”

  “And if all goes unwell? Never mind; I already know. We play it by ear.”

  THEY STROKED AROUND the dock to the Njiwa’s stern and immediately realized the yacht was bigger up close. The stern rail was ten feet above the waterline. Remi fished the dhow’s sea anchor from her backpack. Sam examined it.

  “Too short,” he whispered into her ear, then gestured for her to follow. They stroked back to the Rinker’s transom. “Time for Plan B,” Sam said. “I’ll try the ladder.” Remi opened her mouth to speak, but he pushed on. “It’s the only way. If I jump from the dock, it’ll make too much noise. Get into the Rinker and be ready to take off.”

  “No.”

  “If I get caught, run.”

  “I said—”

  “You run and get back to civilization and call Rube. He’ll know what to do. With you missing, Rivera will assume you’ve contacted the authorities. He won’t kill me—not right away. He’s too smart for that; dead bodies are more trouble than they’re worth.”

  Remi frowned and gave him a withering stare. “Let’s call all that Plan C. Plan B is you don’t get caught. We’re up to our chins, Sam.”

  “I know. Keep a sharp eye out. I’ll signal you when it’s clear. If I raise my hand and spread my fingers, it’s safe to come; a raised fist, stay where you are.”

  He took off his shirt and shoes, stuffed both in his backpack, and handed the pack to Remi.

  “What’re you doing?” she asked.

  “Clothing drips and shoes squeak.”

  “Sam, have you been taking commando classes on the side?”

  “Just watching the Military Channel.”

  He kissed her, then ducked beneath the surface, stroked under the Rinker, and resurfaced under the dock. Another breath and another duck brought him alongside the Njiwa’s white hull. He stroked forward beneath the companion lad
der, then paused. He could hear muffled voices coming from the cabin. Two men, perhaps three. He strained to catch any words or isolate the voices but failed. He boosted himself onto the dock, laid flat, waited and listened, then got up and crept up the ladder. Below the top rung he paused, poked his head up, saw nothing, and crawled onto the deck. He stood up and pressed himself against the bulkhead.

  The sliding door opened. A rectangle of yellow light angled onto the deck. Heart in his throat, Sam did a rapid sidestep along the bulkhead and around the corner to the forecastle, where he froze and took a few calming breaths.

  He heard the clump of footsteps on the deck. The door slid shut again, followed by footsteps clanging down the companion ladder. Sam stepped forward, peeked aft and saw nothing, so he took another step and peeked over the rail. A figure was walking down the dock. At the end of a dock, in a small clearing, sat a green gas-powered Cushman flatbed cart and, directly behind it, a white golf cart. Ahead of them, the trail curved up and away toward the helicopter pad and the main house.

  The figure leaned over the Cushman, removed a rake and a pair of shovels, and tossed them into the brush beside the path.

  “Making room for cargo,” Sam muttered to himself.

  He turned toward the Rinker, raised a “Stay put” fist for a few seconds, then ducked down and waddled back to the bulkhead.

  Footfalls clicked on the wooden dock, then back up the ladder, followed by the sliding door opening and closing. Three minutes passed. The door slid open again. More clomping now. Multiple feet. Grunting. Something heavy sliding across the deck . . . Sam peeked around the corner and saw three men in the light from the cabin door: Rivera, Nochtli, and Yaotl. Between them sat a crate roughly the size of the dummy crate Sam had created on Zanzibar.

  Yaotl, the biggest of the three, backed down the ladder in front of the crate while Rivera and Nochtli shoved it forward. Sam drew back into the shadows and listened as they manhandled the crate down the ladder to the dock. Sam crab-walked to the rail and peeked over.