“Seems like an easy climb—the rock almost forms a staircase,” Brock said as he moved eagerly across the chamber. He headed up first and Kyle followed close behind. It was a bit of a scramble in places, but not difficult. At the apex of the cavern, Brock traversed a sloping ledge and disappeared into another tunnel. Kyle trailed with a little less confidence. He couldn’t see the drop, but he knew it was there and that made him nervous. The passage was large enough that he could stand up and he pursued the glow of Brock’s light for several hundred yards before they reached the next obstacle. The passage dropped and became a crawl space less than two feet high. Brock was already on his stomach, peering into it.
“There’s some debris, but it’s not completely blocked.” He wriggled back out.
“I’ll go first and clear it,” Kyle said. “You need to conserve your energy.” He took his pack off again, got onto his stomach and edged ahead. “Shit, why can’t all caves be like Wookey Hole? I quite enjoyed wandering around there when I was a kid. It was pretty.” He could hear Brock laughing behind him. He shimmied as far as he could. The rock ceiling seemed to press down on him, even though there was a foot of clear space above his head. Using his hands as scoops, he maneuvered loose debris around his body, pushing it out as far as he could to leave a clear way for Brock to follow. After fifteen minutes or so, he’d moved perhaps ten feet forward.
“Fuck, this is hard work.” His arms ached and he was soaked in sweat but in front of him, there was no more muck to clear. Kyle pushed thoughts of the millions of tons of rock above him away and pressed on. He found time to wish that he’d had room for elbow pads, kneepads, shin pads and some kind of cock pad in the rucksack. He was getting scraped to hell. Finally he was able to raise his head and crawl out into another bigger space.
“Come on through,” he shouted through the low gap to Brock, then settled in to wait while Brock made the journey through the low space. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Like a rat up a drainpipe, as my dear old dad would say,” Kyle muttered as Brock cleared the passage in less than five minutes, emerging with a happy smile, shoving both packs in front of him.
“God, I’ve missed this. It’s been an age since I’ve done any caving and there are so few systems left that are unexplored. You can probably count on one hand the number of people who’ve been down here in the last fifty years.”
“I’m so glad you’re having fun.” Kyle moved off, relieved that the cave roof was high enough that he didn’t even have to stoop, let alone crawl for a while.
After another hour of traveling through passages coated in mud the color and texture of melted chocolate, Kyle stopped on the edge of an almost vertical drop. He slid on his ass down a flowstone curtain into another, lower tunnel where the mud came up his boots and sucked at his feet as he walked. Brock followed closely, the light of their head torches mingling. After trudging through the muck for about two hundred feet, they reached a fissure splitting the floor. Kyle shone his light down through the crack.
“I can see water,” Brock said. “This is where we part company, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Kyle replied, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m afraid it is.”
Kyle found a dryish rock that they could both perch on while they ate some high-energy protein bars and drank sugar-laden drinks.
“The map has been right so far but there were a few more accounts to build the picture to this point. As far as we know, only a couple of people have been beyond the sinkhole and not recently. I don’t have any reason to believe that it’s not accurate but you’ll need to be careful and be aware of crevices or other sudden drops that might not be marked once you’re through the water.” He regarded the luminous dial of his watch. “It’s taken us four hours to get to this point—a bit longer than I’d hoped but clearing the debris in that crawl space lost us a bit of time and we won’t need to do that again on the way back. Parts of the route were tighter than I would have liked. Do you have any injuries?”
Kyle had grazes on most bits of his body but he hoped that Brock’s more slender frame might have allowed him to escape damage.
“Just a few minor scrapes and bruises. Nothing serious,” he replied.
“How about your hand?”
“It feels okay. The stitches are holding and the gloves helped a lot. I’ll be fine, Kyle, really.” Brock patted Kyle’s knee. “I just want to get on with this. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we get to go home.” He directed his head torch at the sinkhole in front of him and frowned. “I thought the map indicated a breathing space between the water and the roof of the tunnel?”
“It did, but if there ever was a gap, it’s gone now. That could be because of the season and a higher rainfall level on the surface. You’ll have to dive to find the entrance to the passage.” Kyle tried to keep the worry out of his voice.
“I’m sure you’re right. It should still be doable. The underwater part is only fifteen meters long, isn’t it?”
“As far as we know, it is. Can you do it?”
Brock nodded. “Of course I can.” He handed his pack and all the bits of kit he could do without to Kyle. His camera was weather-sealed but he checked the waterproof bag around it anyway, making sure it was still secured, and tightened the strap across his chest. He couldn’t risk anything happening to it.
“Right, time to leave.”
Kyle leaned in and cupped his face. “Take care.” He kissed him gently, then let him go.
Chimneying, his back against one wall and knees against the other, Brock slid down the crack into the frigid water. His feet didn’t touch the bottom, so he was obliged to swim. The farther he swam, the more the ceiling dropped. Eventually he had to twist his head sideways in a small airway. The water—black as ink—slopped into his mouth. He took a couple of deep breaths, filling his lungs, and went under, immediately swallowed by the inky blackness. In seconds he had disappeared from view. Kyle peered down the crevice into the water for a while longer then switched off his own light and settled down to wait.
Brock pushed away the instant anxiety that came with leaving Kyle behind. The moment he ducked beneath the water, all his concentration was focused on finding the route he needed to follow. He felt the rock with his hands, inching down with his fingertips. The solid wall gave way to water. He traced the edge of the hole to the width of his arm span. It was big enough for an easy swim. He wouldn’t have to force his way through at least. He swam back to where he could take in more air then turned, dove and swam forward into the submerged tunnel with powerful strokes. He counted in his head, and when he got to fifteen began to feel the rock above him. It slowed him down but in the darkness it was the only way to know where the tunnel ended. He found the edge and pulled himself out. The surface was only a couple of feet up and he emerged into a large space that was oddly lit.
“Hmm, phosphorescence.” Treading water, Brock took in the rough rocks cast in eerie green shadows. He swam to the side of the small pool and pulled himself up onto a rocky shelf. It hadn’t been a difficult swim but he was now shivering from the cold.
“Got to keep moving and warm up.” Brock knew that he only had a short window of opportunity to get the shots he needed. Once he reached the end of the cave, it would be late afternoon and the light would already be failing. He had no idea what he was walking into—Kyle’s intelligence had been limited—but if his luck held, he would reach the outside world smack in the middle of the terrorists’ base of operations. Brock sniggered at the irony of that thought. Who in their right mind would feel lucky to be that close to a bunch of heavily armed, brutal fanatics? I must be losing it. He wrung as much of the water out of his sodden clothes as he could and set off.
At first the route was low and narrow, dripping with moisture. Gradually it widened and he was able to stand upright. He moved quickly, heedless of unseen obstacles, taking risks he would never normally have considered. He crossed a wide cavern, hopping over a small stream that had dug a trough through
the center of the floor, and wove around the many stalagmites clustered together in various places. He kept going, his helmet light picking up all kinds of weird colors and formations. He wished he had time to take some pictures, but resisted the temptation. He climbed over a small outcropping, feeling the pull in muscles still tired from the previous day’s climb. His wet, muddy clothing clung to his skin. The activity was warming him up at least, but then he had to slow down and begin searching for the exit from the cavern. In a corner, a narrow vertical crack appeared to be the only means of exit.
Brock adjusted his camera bag to a position where it was less likely to snag or catch. He needed to reduce his profile as much as possible. He shuddered. The route was daunting and it was a hell of a lot more difficult to be brave without Kyle to tease. He wondered if he could possibly wedge his body into that slit. The walls looked as if they would squeeze the breath from his chest.
He did a swift reconnaissance of the crack, edging inside and casting round with his light. He chuckled at his own nerves and pushed forward. The passage was about ten feet long, but narrowed to a tight spot near the end. Brock could see that, beyond the worst point, it widened into a decent-sized tunnel again.
“Piece of cake,” he muttered, glad that there was no one to argue with his assessment. He kept his helmet light pointing to the front, leaned his back on the left wall, which was the smoothest, and maneuvered his left shoulder into the crack, one foot pointing forward, the other back. Inching into the claustrophobic space, he tried to halt the panicked flutter of his heart and just concentrate on making progress. Up ahead, more phosphorescent light diffused around the curve of the narrow aperture. There were just a few steps to go.
The crack swallowed him up. The walls pressed, too tight even to turn his head. All he could do was slide one leg a few inches and drag his body along behind it. He counted the steps, trying to divert his mind.
“You’re doing fine,” he told himself. “Just a little farther.”
A ghost of a smile played about his lips. Kyle would laugh like a drain if he knew Brock was talking to himself again. He moved his left foot a little, but when he tried to wiggle his body to follow, his chest jammed snug in the crack.
“Fuck.” He tried to force himself ahead, only pinning himself tighter. He squirmed backward, trying to free himself, but failed.
He reached out with his hand and grasped an edge. He counted to three then blew out all the air from his lungs, shrinking his chest, then heaved himself forward. Pain shot through his shoulder but he popped free of the crack, like a cork from a celebratory bottle of Moët.
“Thank you, Lord. Fuck, that was not fun.” Brock rolled his shoulder. “Just bruised.” He glanced around and realized that the increased brightness was not just from glowing algae, but daylight. He turned off his head torch. Up ahead, the sun’s rays filtered through the darkness from an opening to the real world. He made his way toward the golden glow and finally the passage widened into an opening. Cautiously he stuck his head out through a screen of tangled vegetation and found that the ragged hole in the rock was set into a small outcrop and there was a sheer drop of about seven feet below him. The air was still and warm, thick with humidity but it felt good against his chilled skin. He unwrapped his camera and hid his helmet and the waterproof bag just inside the entrance. He lowered himself over the lip of the rock. His hand throbbed as it took his weight momentarily before he dropped the last foot or so to the ground, boots squelching as he landed.
Brock paused to catch his breath. He checked the wound on his hand and to his relief there was no blood seeping through the wet dressing. Kyle’s stitches had held. He gave his camera a quick once-over and made sure the settings were right for the conditions.
“Okay. Now for the difficult part.” Keeping low, Brock pushed forward through the undergrowth.
Chapter Thirteen
Within a few yards of the cave entrance Brock froze. He could hear men’s voices somewhere close by but was disoriented and had to concentrate to work out which direction the sound came from. The last thing he wanted to do was to blunder into someone because of carelessness, so he kept still and listened. He wasn’t good at being still. That was why he preferred landscape rather than wildlife photography. Mountains didn’t run away in a panic if you moved an eyelash. With his life at stake, he found a new level of patience. He was grateful for the concealing vegetation as he dropped to his knees and crawled forward, inch by inch. Even the varied insect life that chose to wander across his hands didn’t distract him.
As the sounds grew louder, Brock lowered himself to his stomach and slid as quietly as he could along the muddy ground. To his astonishment, when the voices became clearer, he could hear that the men were speaking English, not Spanish. Not only that, they had American accents. Curiosity made him reckless and he edged a little farther forward. He almost gave himself away when he stuck his head between two bushes and found his nose inches from a pair of muddy combat boots. He held his breath, only letting it out when the boots moved away. Fuck, that was close. His view was restricted but Brock saw that he was on the edge of a deeply rutted dirt track. This must be the road Kyle mentioned—the only one in and out of the area. Down the track in one direction Brock observed several vehicles parked to the side. One appeared to be some kind of armored personnel carrier and there were a couple of open jeeps. In the other direction stood the two men he could hear talking. Dressed in camouflage gear, they could have passed for regular soldiers, except they wore no insignia that Brock could identify and both had baseball caps on their heads. Light machine guns were slung over their shoulders.
Hardly daring to breathe, Brock slid deeper into the undergrowth and checked his camera one more time, making sure the lens cover was open. His hands shook a little as he adjusted the settings for the shade and forced himself to calm down. He clenched and released his fingers a few times and they became steadier. He smeared mud onto his face and into his hair in an attempt to become less visible. His blond locks in particular were not an asset when it came to stealth and concealment, especially in a country where blond was not the norm. He crept back to the trackside position and for the next half an hour or so he took shots of men and guns, vehicles carrying heavy weapons and lorries loaded with equipment. The track was well used and clearly the main thoroughfare to and from the camp. There was plenty of movement for him to capture.
I need to move. These shots are all very well, but I have to get pictures of more important people, not just foot soldiers. This stuff is background, but there’s nothing that interesting. Satellites have probably picked up most of this. His thoughts scattered as he weighed up all the risks and options. In for a penny. He’d come so far. He couldn’t stop now. He couldn’t let Kyle down. Much as he wanted to take his time, the fading light gave him no choice. He slipped through the trees and made his way parallel to the track in the direction the vehicles had mainly come from. The rough road widened until it opened into a clearing that housed an encampment. From his vantage point in the trees, Brock could see several tents and a couple of shacks constructed from sheet metal. Several armed men stood around the periphery of the clearing. They acted like sentries and Brock couldn’t see a way to get past them without being spotted. He waited for an opportunity to get closer. A bell clanged and Brock’s heart leapt. He dropped to the ground, holding back a curse as a thorny plant stabbed his knee. He watched with a grin as men came from every direction and converged on the biggest tent.
“Ha! Food time.” He couldn’t believe his luck. Within ten minutes, all but two of the men had disappeared inside. Brock could just hear chatter and the occasional shout of laughter. From his hiding place he managed a few distance shots, then skirted around the tents. He took as many pictures as he dared and even sprinted into a vehicle compound, to get pictures of the trucks loaded with crates and boxes. Some were marked with Russian lettering, others in English. He clambered into the back of one truck and levered a lid from a crate. He pulled o
ff some straw packing and gasped as his digging revealed several automatic weapons.
He moved farther back into the vehicle to a bigger crate but inside that were some bags rather than weapons. Brock pulled one open and gaped at the glittering pile of gold ingots inside. He slipped a single small bar into his pocket and jumped out of the truck.
Just time to try to get into those huts, then the light will be gone. He skirted around the back of the noisy mess tent, grateful that the chatter concealed any sound he made. The voices he heard spoke Spanish with a local accent, but also English with a southern US drawl. He thought he caught some German as well. “Quite the international love-in,” he muttered beneath his breath. Moving as fast as he dared, Brock crossed the compound to the biggest of the huts. Roughly constructed from sheets of corrugated iron, it had a hinged door with an enormous padlock that to Brock’s delight hung open. He unhooked it and slipped inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the gloomy interior, he could make out a couple of wheeled metal cages similar to ones he’d seen in supermarkets back home. Inside them were stacked dozens of canisters, marked with strange symbols. Brock didn’t have time to wonder what they contained. He took more pictures, adjusting his camera settings for the lack of light. He didn’t dare use a flash but someone with a bit of computer know-how would be able to enhance the images easily enough.
He’d risked his luck by remaining so long. He edged from the hut and replaced the padlock in the door latch. Scraping and clattering from the mess tent told him that mealtime was ending. He could either hide or make a run for it.
“Shit.” Running seemed like the safer option. He tore a direct line for the trees, running at full pelt, camera banging against his side. Just as he reached the tree line, cries of alarm went up behind him and the sharp retort of weapons firing split the air. Bullets bit into the trunks around him, spitting lethal shards of wood all around. A red-hot pain shot through his shoulder and Brock staggered at the impact. He didn’t pause to look back. He ran, heart pounding, for the relative security of the cave.
Testing Lysander Page 15