The Kingdom fa-3

by Clive Cussler

  Sam scooted across the platform until he was snug against Remi. She was already grasping the guylines in both hands. Sam grabbed another with his left hand, then leaned backward, laid the blade of his Swiss Army knife against one of the risers, and started sawing. With a twang, it parted. The platform dipped slightly.

  Sam moved to the second riser.

  “How long until we hit?” he asked.

  “I don’t know-”

  “Guess!”

  “A few seconds!”

  Sam kept sawing. Pitted and slightly bent from overuse and Sam’s attempts to sharpen it on rocks, the knife’s blade was dull. He clenched his teeth and worked harder.

  The second guyline snapped. Sam moved to the third.

  “Running out of time,” Remi called.

  Twang!

  The opposite end of the platform was dangling by a single riser now, fluttering like a kite in the wind. With both hands clutching guylines, Remi was all but hanging, with only one foot perched on the edge of the platform. Sam’s left hand was grasping the line beside hers like a talon.

  “One more!” he shouted, and started sawing. “Come on . . . Come on . . .”

  Twang!

  The end of the platform swung free, now hanging vertically below them. Sam was about to drop his knife when he changed his mind. He folded the blade closed against his cheek. He clamped his right hand on a guyline.

  Remi was already lowering herself down the risers so her body was behind the platform. Sam climbed down toward her. He peeked around the edge of the platform and saw a wall of green rushing toward him.

  Their world began tumbling. Though having taken a good portion of the impact, the clawing branches immediately spun the platform around. They found themselves hurtling through a gauntlet of whipping boughs. They tucked their chins and closed their eyes. Sam unclenched his right hand from the riser and tried to cover Remi’s face with his forearm.

  On instinct she shouted, “Let go!”

  Then they were falling through the tree, their fall softened by branches.

  They jolted to a stop.

  Sam opened his mouth to speak but all that came out was a croak. He tried again. “Remi!”

  “Here,” came the faint reply. “Below you.”

  Lying faceup and diagonally across a pair of boughs, Sam carefully rolled onto his belly. Ten feet below, Remi was lying on the ground in a pile of pine needles. Her face was scratched as though someone had swiped her with a wire brush. Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  “How bad are you?” he asked.

  She forced a smile and gave him a weak thumbs-up. “And you, intrepid pilot?”

  “Let me lie here for a bit and I’ll let you know.”

  After a time, Sam began the task of climbing down.

  “Don’t move,” he told Remi. “Just lie there.”

  “If you insist.”

  Sam felt as though he’d been pummeled by a bat-wielding gang, but all of his major joints and muscles seemed to be working properly, if sluggishly.

  Using his right hand, Sam lowered himself from the last branch and dropped in a heap beside Remi. She cupped his face with a hand and said, “Never a dull moment with you.”

  “Nope.”

  “Sam, your neck.”

  He reached up and touched the spot Remi had indicated. His fingers came back bloody. After a bit of probing he found a three-inch vertical gash below his ear.

  “It’ll coagulate,” he told her. “Let’s check you out.”

  Their clothes had likely saved them, he quickly realized. The parkas’ thick padding and high collars had protected their torsos and throats, and the knit caps had served as a crucial bit of cushion for their skulls.

  “Not bad, all things considered.”

  “Your shield idea saved the day.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “Where’s High Flier?”

  “Tangled in the tree.”

  “Do I still have the bamboo?”

  Sam saw the end of it jutting from her collar. “Yes.”

  “Does my face look as bad as yours?” Remi asked.

  “You’ve never looked more lovely.”

  “Liar-but thank you. The sun is setting. What now?”

  “Now we get rescued. I build you a fire, then go find some friendly villagers who will offer us cozy beds and hot food.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Sam pushed himself to his feet and stretched his limbs. His entire body hurt, a throbbing pain that seemed to be everywhere at once.

  “Be right back.”

  It took him only a few minutes to find the emergency chute pack, which had been ripped off his back during the crash. It took longer to find the duffel bag, however; it had fallen when the platform’s last riser had given way. Of the seven or so bricks that had been left, he found three.

  He returned to Remi and found she had managed to sit upright with her back against the tree. Soon he had a brick burning in a small dirt circle next to her. He placed the two remaining bricks beside her.

  “I’ll be back in a flash,” he said.

  “I’ll be here.”

  He gave her a kiss, then headed off.

  “Sam?”

  He turned. “Yes.”

  “Watch out for Yetis.”

  37

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA,

  CALIFORNIA

  “I have a translation for you,” Selma said, walking into the solarium. She walked to where Sam and Remi were reclined on chaise longues and handed Remi the printout.

  “That’s fantastic,” Remi replied with a wan smile.

  Sam asked Selma, “Did you read it?”

  “I did.”

  “Would you mind giving us the Reader’s Digest condensed version? Remi’s pain meds have left her a bit . . . happy.”

  As it had turned out, Sam’s search for rescuers in the high Himalayas had, in fact, been a simple affair. In retrospect, given what they’d gone through to get this far, Sam considered it poetic justice. Without realizing it, they had crashed less than a mile from a village called Samagaun, the northernmost settlement in that region of Nepal.

  In the dimming twilight, Sam had shuffled his way down the valley until he was spotted by an Australian couple on a trekking vacation. They took him to Samagaun, and in short order a rescue party was organized. Two villagers, the Australian couple, and Sam rode as far up the valley as possible in an ancient Datsun truck, then got out and walked the rest of the way. They found Remi where Sam had left her, in the warm glow of the fire.

  For safety’s sake they placed her on a piece of plywood they’d brought along for that very purpose, then made their way back to Samagaun, where they found the village had mobilized on their behalf. A room with twin beds and a potbellied stove was arranged, and they were fed aloo tareko (fried potatoes) and kukhura ko ledo (chicken with gravy) until they could take no more. The village doctor came in, examined them both, and found nothing life-threatening.

  The next morning they awoke to find a village elder had already sent word of their rescue down the valley via ham radio. Soon after Sam gave the village elder Jack Karna’s contact information, a more robust SUV arrived to take them south. In Gorkha they found Jack and Ajay waiting to take them the rest of the way to Kathmandu.

  Jack had in fact reported them missing and was wading through the Nepalese government bureaucracy trying to organize a search party when word came of their rescue.

  Under the watchful eye of Ajay, Sam and Remi spent a night in the hospital. Remi’s X-rays revealed two bruised ribs and a sprained ankle. For their bumps and bruises Sam and Remi got prescription painkillers. The scratches on their faces, though ugly, were superficial and would eventually fade.

  Five days after crash-landing in their balloon, they were on a plane headed home.

  Now Selma gave them the edited version, “Well, first of all, Jack has confirmed your hunch, Mrs. Fargo. The symbols carved into the bamboo were ide
ntical to those on the lid of the Theurang chest. He’s as dumbfounded by it as you are. Whenever you’re ready to talk, call him.

  “As for the rest of the markings, you were right again: it’s Italian. According to the author, a man named”-Selma scanned the print-out-“Francesco Lana de Terzi-”

  “I know that name,” Sam said. Since returning home, he had immersed himself in the history of dirigibles.

  Remi said, “Tell us.”

  “De Terzi is widely considered the Father of Aeronautics. He was a Jesuit, and professor of physics and mathematics, in Brescia-northern Italy. In 1670 he published a book called Prodomo. For its time, it was groundbreaking, the first solid analysis of the math behind air travel. He laid the groundwork for everyone that followed him, starting with the Montgolfier brothers in 1783.”

  “Oh, them,” Remi replied.

  “The first successful balloon flight,” Sam explained. “De Terzi was an absolute genius. He paved the way for things like the sewing machine, a reading device for the blind, the first primitive form of Braille . . .”

  “But no airship,” Selma said.

  “His primary concept was something he called a Vacuum Ship-essentially, the same as the multiple balloon dirigible we found, but in place of fabric spheres you would have copper ones that had been evacuated of air. In the mid sixteen hundreds, the inventor Robert Boyle created a pump-a ‘pneumatic engine,’ as he called it-that could completely evacuate the air from a vessel. With it, he proved that air has weight. De Terzi theorized that once the ship’s copper spheres were evacuated, the ship would be lighter than the air around it, causing it to rise. I won’t bore you with the physics, but the concept has too many hurdles to be workable.”

  “So the Vacuum Ship was never built,” said Selma.

  “Not that we know of. In the late nineteenth century a man named Arthur De Bausset tried to get funding for what he called a vacuum-tube airship, but nothing came of it. As for De Terzi, according to history he kept working on his theory until he died in 1686.”

  “Where?”

  Sam smiled. “In Brescia.”

  “After gallivanting around the Himalayas,” Remi added. “Go on, Selma.”

  “According to the bamboo, De Terzi and his Chinese crew-he doesn’t say how many-crash-landed during a test flight of an airship he was designing for the Kangxi Emperor. The Emperor had named the airship the Great Dragon. Only De Terzi and two others survived the crash. He was the only one uninjured.”

  “The two mummies we found,” Remi said.

  “I checked the dates for the Kangxi Emperor,” said Selma. “He ruled from 1661 to 1722.”

  “The time line fits,” said Sam.

  “Now, here’s the good part: De Terzi states that while foraging for food he found a”-Selma read the printout-“‘mysterious vessel of a design he had never seen, engraved with symbols both similar and dissimilar to those used by my benefactor.’”

  Sam and Remi exchanged smiles.

  Selma continued: “In the final part of the engraving, De Terzi wrote that he had decided to leave his crewmates and head north, back toward the airship’s launch base, something he referred to as Shekar Gompa.”

  Sam said, “Did you check-”

  “I did. Shekar Gompa is only ruins now, but it’s located about forty miles northeast of where you found the ship, in Tibet.”

  “Go on.”

  “If De Terzi made it back to Shekar Gompa, he himself would tell the tale of the journey. If he failed, his body would never be found. The bamboo was to be his testament.”

  “And the mysterious vessel?” said Sam.

  “I left the best for last,” Selma replied. “De Terzi claimed he was going to take the vessel with him as, and I quote, ‘ransom to free my brother Giuseppe, held hostage by the Kangxi Emperor to ensure my return with the Great Dragon.’”

  “He took it with him,” Sam murmured. “He took the Theurang into Tibet.”

  Remi said, “I have so many questions, I don’t know where to start. First, how much history do we have on De Terzi?”

  “There’s very little out there. At least not that I could find,” Selma replied. “According to every source, De Terzi spent his life in Italy. He died there and is buried there. As Sam said, he spent his final years working on his Vacuum Ship.”

  “Both versions of his life can’t be true,” Sam said. “Either he never left Brescia and the bamboo is a hoax or he spent time in China working for the Kangxi Emperor.”

  “And perhaps died there,” Remi added.

  Sam saw the mischievous smile on Selma’s face. He said, “Okay, out with it.”

  “There’s nothing online about De Terzi, but there is a professor at University of Brescia who teaches a class in late Renaissance-era Italian inventors. According to their online catalog, De Terzi figures prominently in the curriculum.”

  Remi said, “You really enjoy doing that, don’t you?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Selma replied solemnly. “Just say the word, and I’ll have you in Italy by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Just say the word, and we’ll get an Internet appointment for tomorrow.”

  GOLDFISH POINT, LA JOLLA

  CALIFORNIA

  The next day, late afternoon Italian time, on iChat, Sam and Remi introduced themselves and explained, ambiguously, the gist of their interest in Francesco Lana de Terzi to the course’s instructor, Professor Carlotta Moretti. Moretti, a mid-thirties brunette with owlish glasses, smiled at them from the computer screen.

  “So nice to meet you both,” she said in lightly accented English.

  “I am something of a fan, you know.”

  “Of ours?” Remi replied.

  “Si, si. I read about you in the Smithsonian magazine. The Napoleon’s lost cellar, and the cave in the mountains, the, uh . . .”

  “Grand Saint Bernard,” Sam offered.

  “Yes, that is it. Please excuse my prying, but I must ask: are you both well? Your faces?”

  “A hiking mishap,” Sam replied. “We’re on the mend.”

  “Oh, good. Well, I was fascinated, and then of course happy when you called. Surprised too. Tell me your interest in Francesco De Terzi and I will try to be of help to you.”

  “His name came up during a project,” Remi said. “We’ve been able to find surprisingly little published about him. We were told you’re something of an expert.”

  Moretti wagged her hand. “Expert, I do not know. I teach about De Terzi, and have had a curiosity about him since I was a little girl.”

  “We’re primarily interested in the latter part of his life; say, the last ten years. First, can you confirm that he had a brother?”

  “Oh, yes. Giuseppe Lana de Terzi.”

  “And is it true Francesco never left Brescia?”

  “Oh, no, that is untrue. De Terzi traveled often to Milan, to Genoa, to other places too.”

  “How about out of Italy? Overseas, perhaps?”

  “It is possible, though I could not say where exactly. Based on some accounts, mostly secondhand accounts of stories De Terzi was said to have told, he traveled distantly between the years 1675 and 1679. Though no historian I know of will confirm that.”

  “Do these stories talk about where he might have been?”

  “Somewhere in the Far East,” replied Moretti. “Asia, is one speculation.”

  “Why would he have gone there?”

  The professor hesitated. “You must understand, this may all be fantasy. There is so little documentation to support any of this.”

  “We understand,” Sam replied.

  “The story goes that De Terzi could find no investors for his aircraft plan.”

  “The Vacuum Ship.”

  “Yes, that. He could find no one to give him money, not the government, not wealthy men here. He journeyed east hoping to find support so he might finish his work.”

  “And did he?”

  “No, not that I am aware of.”

  “Wh
at happened when he returned in 1679?” Sam said.

  “It is said he returned to Italy a changed man. Something bad had occurred during his travels, and Giuseppe did not return home. Francesco never spoke of that. Soon after, he resettled in Brescia, left the Jesuit Order, and moved to Vienna, Austria.”

  “In search of investors again?”

  “Perhaps, but in Vienna he found only bad luck.”

  “How so?” asked Remi.

  “Soon after he moved to Vienna he married, and then quickly followed a baby boy. Two years later came the big battle-the Siege and then the Battle of Vienna. Do you know of it?”

  “Only vaguely.”

  “The Siege lasted for two months, the Ottoman Empire fighting the Holy League: the Holy Roman Empire, the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth, and the Venetian Republic. In early September of 1683, the final battle was fought. Many tens of thousands of people died, including Francesco De Terzi’s wife and new son.”

  “That’s awful,” Remi said. “So sad.”

  “Si. It is said he was terribly heartbroken. First his brother, and then his new family, all dead. Shortly afterward, De Terzi disappeared again.”

  “Where?”

  Moretti shrugged. “Again, a mystery. He returned again to Brescia in October of 1685, and then died a few months later.”

  “Let me ask you what may sound like an odd question,” Remi said.

  “Please.”

  “Are you, or anyone, absolutely certain De Terzi returned to Brecia in 1685?”

  “That is an odd question. I suppose the answer would be no. I know of nothing that certifies he was buried here-or that he returned, for that matter. That part of the story is, like the rest, based on secondhand information. Short of an . . .”

  “Exhumation.”

  “Yes, an exhumation. Only that, and a DNA sample from his descendants, would be proof. Why do you ask? Do you have reason to believe-”

  “No, not really. We’re brainstorming.”

  Sam asked, “About these stories: do you believe any of them?”

  “Part of me wants to believe. It is a thrilling adventure, yes? But, as I said, the official histories of De Terzi’s life contain none of these accounts.”