Mualama could only nod as his lungs worked to replenish the lost oxygen. He noted that the porters were looking about nervously, fearful of something. Bauru sat down on the edge of the rock. “It is dangerous to stay in the water too long.”
Mualama was finally able to speak. “Why?”
“Snakes. Piranha. They usually are not in water that flows this quickly, but one never knows. Sometimes they congregate in tide pools along such a river and hunt meat in packs. It is not good to take chances.”
Mualama had come too far to be scared off by a threat that might not be present. “I am going under. There is a chamber. If I do not surface, or pull on the rope three times, by the end of one minute, pull me back out.”
Bauru nodded.
Mualama filled his lungs and dove once more. He slid along the rock and into the opening. He could tell with his hands that it was a tunnel about four feet in diameter, going into the rock itself. He pushed along, searching blindly. Suddenly his hand was free of water. He popped his head up and breathed stale air in total darkness. He tugged on the rope around his waist hard, three times. Then he searched with his hands. A rock ledge was in front of him. It went back as far as he could reach. He needed light.
The African professor retraced his route through the tunnel and back to the surface. He surfaced and opened (…)
Bauru and the two porters were no longer holding the other end of the rope. The three were standing, heads tilted back, looking at the top of the gorge. Mualama followed their gaze. A tall man in dark clothes, along with dozen Guirani Indian tribesmen armed with crossbows, lined the top. The man’s face was hidden in the shadow of a large bush hat.
The man waved his hand and the Guirani raised their weapons. Bauru reacted, dashing toward Mualama and diving into the water. The porters cried out, raising their hands in supplication, in turn to be hit with several bolts each. They dropped lifeless on the stone altar.
“Come!” Bauru grabbed Mualama’s shoulder as a bolt skittered off the edge of the rock less than six inches from his face. “Lead me to the chamber.”
Mualama dove, Bauru’s hand now on his ankle. He pulled through the tunnel, lungs bursting—he had not gotten a good breath when he had surfaced, and the going was slow—pulling Bauru through.
Mualama was starved for air. He reached ahead, hoping to touch the surface, but felt only more water. He pulled harder through tunnel. His hand broke the surface and he grabbed the ledge, pulling himself into the air. Bauru sputtered up next to him.
They hung on the edge, gasping for several moments.
“Who was that with the Guirani?” Bauru finally man-aged to ask.
“The Mission.” Mualama spit the last word out.
“Who?”
Mualama pulled himself onto the stone ledge and rolled onto his side, still breathing hard. “They’ve followed me before. The burns on my back—they almost caught me in England last year. They destroyed the place where I was studying some ancient texts, and I barely managed to escape.”
Bauru joined him. “Who is this Mission? I have heard stories of such a place, but no one seems to know exactly where it is. Why do they chase you?”
Mualama felt the darkness all around. Even here the sound of the waterfalls sounded like a nonending series of drums rumbling. He reached out, searching the stone ledge. “Burton left something in this place. He could get in here during the dry season that year. Every forty years or so during a drought the river dries up and the falls are silent. Burton came here during one of those occasions.”
“Why is this Mission trying to kill us?” Bauru was still focused on the immediate danger.
“They work for the aliens.” Mualama’s fingers brushed against something. Slick cloth. Wrapped around something. He picked it up. It was about twelve inches long by eight wide by two deep and covered with a soft pliant cloth. He slipped it into the waistband of his shirt as Bauru suddenly turned on a small penlight.
• • •
Above the rock, one of the Guirani scampered down the rope to the rock. He had a length of cord over his shoulder that he tied to both of the bodies. He fastened the free end to the piton, then rolled both bodies into the river, the blood swirling into the silt-laden water, the corpses banging against the rock. Then he unfastened the nylon rope from the piton and climbed, hand over hand, hack to the top of the gorge. He pulled the rope up.
The small party stood still for a few minutes, watching. Then the water around the two bodies exploded in churning red froth.
• • •
“What do we do now?” Bauru asked. He shined the light around. They were inside a chamber about four feet from the ledge, three high by six wide. The rock walls had been polished smooth when water had carved it out ages before.
“We must get out of here,” Mualama said.
“They might be waiting for us.”
“We cannot stay here much longer,” Mualama said. “The air is growing stale.” Bauru considered the situation. “If we stay underwater and swim with the current, we might be able to get far enough down the gorge so that they will not see us.
“All right.” Mualama was anxious to be moving, to get outside in the light where he could see what treasure he had uncovered.
Bauru turned the light off and slid over the edge into the water. Mualama prepared to follow, when the guide screamed and splashed about.
“What is wrong?” Mualama yelled.
Bauru screamed again, and literally jumped out of the water onto the ledge. Mualama could hear him cursing, flopping about.
“Get it off me!” Bauru yelled.
“What is it?”
“Get it off me!” There was a ripping sound, then something splashing into the water. “Oh, God.” Bauru’s voice was low now as he slumped back. The light came on, and Mualama saw a long, jagged tear down the other man’s chest. There was another on his leg. Blood pulsed out of the wounds.
“What happened?”
“Piranha.” Bauru grimaced as his fingers probed the wound on his chest. The skin was torn for almost ten inches, the edges of the wound rough. Blood oozed out over Bauru’s fingers.
Mualama tried to help him, but they had nothing to stop the bleeding with. “We have to get out of here,” Mualama insisted.
“How?
“We wait for the fish to leave?” Mualama suggested.
Bauru looked up at Mualama, his face resigned.
“They have tasted me. They have the blood scent. They will not leave. I have seen such fish block a river crossing for four days after taking down the lead horse in a column. They stripped it down to a skeleton, then waited for more.”
Mualama took a deep breath to steady his nerves, but all that served to do was remind how stale the air in their small prison was. He tried to help the other man stop the bleeding, but the wounds were too wide and long. A pool of blood was forming on the rock beneath Bauru.
Mualama looked over at the dark surface of the (…)
“There is no other way out than through the tunnel.” Mualama said.
Bauru laughed, a manic edge to it. “I know that. The only choice to be made is to die here slowly or to go in the water and die quickly.” He leaned back, hissing in pain. “What did you find?” he asked, nodding toward the packet stuck in Mualama’s belt.
“I don’t know.”
“Is it important?”
“I believe so.”
“Worth our lives?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you don’t know what it is?” Bauru was surprised and interested in spite of his pain and the situation.
“1 have been tracking down…” Mualama paused. He’d never explained what he was doing to anyone, even his wife. “I have been searching for the truth.”
“The truth?”
“About the aliens. About our… the human race’s past. I think this”—Mualama tapped the packet wrapped in oilskins—“is the next clue in a long line leading me to the ultimate truth.”
&n
bsp; “Ah.” Bauru nodded. “That they destroyed the people of the great city of Tiahuanaco in ancient times.”
Mualama nodded. “The Mission has been around for a long time. It was behind the Black Death that killed many of your countrymen in Vilhena just recently.”
There was silence for several minutes. Mualama kept pressure on the wounds as best he could, but the rips were too long and wide.
“I am going to die here,” Bauru finally said.
“I will go and get help,” Mualama said.
“You will die before you make twenty feet. And help where? We are over a hundred miles from the nearest help. Even if I get out of here, I am still a dead man.”
Mualama didn’t answer, because he knew what Bauru was saying was true. “What religion are you?” Bauru asked unexpectedly.
“I was born Muslim.”
Bauru laughed softly. “I am Catholic—will it make any difference if you pray for me?”
“I think we all look to the same God with different names.” Mualama said. Bauru looked down at his wound. “I am a dead man already. I will help you escape.”
“How?”
When Bauru explained his plan, Mualama did not argue.
He knew that to protest would insult the other man’s brave offer. And he knew it was the only chance he had to get out of the cave and away, alive with the packet.
“Are you ready?” Bauru asked.
Mualama nodded.
Bauru closed his eyes, and his lips moved in prayer. Mualama murmured his own prayer to Allah for his companion.
Bauru scooted over to the edge and looked down at the dark water. “I am ready.”
Mualama clasped the other man on the shoulder. “I thank you.”
“Use my gift well,” Bauru said. Then he dove into the water and disappeared from sight.
Mualama slowly began counting to ten.
• • •
Bauru made it into the tunnel before the first piranha struck. They were of the Serrasalmus piraya species, the largest of the deadly fish, the biggest in the pack almost twenty inches long. They had a stocky body, with a large head, sporting a domed forehead, and were also among the most aggressive of the family of piranha. Their lower jaws opened wide, revealing rows of sharp, serrated teeth. They slammed into Bauru’s body, teeth clamping down, ripping flesh free. Still Bauru pulled and kicked, getting to the end of the tunnel, pushing free into the river, his body covered with predators. He continued kicking, a trail of blood bringing those that weren’t already feasting in for the kill. Even though they traveled in a loose pack, there was no love lost among the fish, some even fighting each other to get at the meat. As Bauru splashed downstream, the pack followed him.
On the ridge above, those waiting saw the bloody struggle, and their eyes followed until the body stopped flailing and the feeding frenzy drifted downstream.
• • •
Mualama reached ten and dove into the water. He made it through the tunnel unscathed. Holding his breath, he angled left, heading for the far shore. His muscles were tight; at any moment he expected to feel teeth tearing into his flesh.
He bumped into a rock, then another, tumbled about in the current, pulled himself around a boulder, sheltering him from view from the far side, and surfaced.
Sucking in a lungful of oxygen, Mualama carefully peered around the boulder. He saw those on top of the gorge looking farther downstream at Bauru’s fate. Mualama pulled himself out of the water and onto a rocky ledge, still keeping the boulder between him and the others. He waited until, after another hour, they finally turned and disappeared into the jungle, satisfied they had accomplished their task.
Mualama climbed on top of the boulder. He could jump from there to the rock face on this side of the gorge. He knew he had a hard climb, and then an even harder forced march to civilization, but there was no doubt in his mind he would make it. All he had to do was look over his shoulder and see the remains of Bauru, stripped to the bone, washed up between two rocks downstream and on the other side.
And he had the package tucked into his pants. He had to make it to the next step in the riddled path that Richard Francis Burton had left behind as his secret legacy.
CHAPTER 4
Area 51
The gusts of wind coming off the peaks picked up sand and carried the fine particles with them, limiting visibility to less than two hundred feet in any direction. Area 51 was completely covered by the storm.
Captain Mike Turcotte kept one hand on the goggles strapped around his head, the other on the MP-5 submachine gun slung over his left shoulder. To his right, another figure braved the scouring wind, striding forward, away from the side of the mountain where the massive hangar doors that had opened slightly to allow them out, now slid closed. The doors were painted the same color as the mountain, a dull, sandy tone, and they appeared to become part of the slope as they shut.
“At our Area 51 it was snow that the wind carried,” the other man yelled, his strong accent audible above the howling shrieks.
Turcotte didn’t acknowledge the Russian’s comment. Already the mountain from which they had emerged had faded into the brown, swirling fog. He concentrated on moving in a straight line, knowing how easy it would be to become disoriented and wander into the wasteland that surrounded Area 51.
Turcotte held up his right arm, fist closed, the military signal to stop. Yakov, the Russian, lumbered to a halt, waiting. Almost seven feet tall, Yakov seemed little bothered by either the wind or blowing sand. He wore a long black coat that flapped behind him. A short black beard covered his lower face. A fur hat, incongruous in the sandstorm, topped his large head.
“The runway.” Turcotte pointed ahead at the edge of concrete that was visible in the relative lulls between the stronger gusts. He turned to the right and moved in that direction, using the edge of the runway as his guide. After several minutes he came to another stop. To the right, in between surges of the wind, they could make out the gutted ruins of the hangar that had been destroyed by the blast from space.
“With our own sword,” Turcotte said, more to himself than Yakov.
“What?” The Russian leaned closer.
“We were attacked with our own weapon.”
“What was in there?” Yakov asked.
“The bodies of the two STAAR personnel we killed. The scientists were still working on the bodies, trying to figure out how much was human and how much was alien. Eight people were killed in the blast.”
“It is the price of war,” Yakov said.
“We’re not winning the war,” Turcotte said.
Yakov didn’t reply to that. He reached up and made sure his hat was still attached. “We could have waited in the hangar.”
“Too many prying eyes and inquisitive ears in there,” Turcotte said. Yakov laughed, a deep rumble that was ripped away by the wind. “You are learning. Paranoid is good. Paranoid keeps you alive.”
“Major Quinn is doing an electronics sweep of the Cube—the underground operations center for Area 51 where you met him. Once he’s sure it’s secure—and Dr. Duncan gets here—we’ll meet there and figure out what we’re doing.”
“Do you trust this Major Quinn? Was not he a member of Majestic-12?”
“I don’t trust you, never mind Major Quinn,” Turcotte said, turning from the destroyed hangar to watch the runway, or at least the small portion he could see. “Quinn wasn’t on the inner circle of MJ-12, just their military liaison in the Cube—more of a technical guy than an actual operator. And you were a member of Section Four, right? Which was the Soviet’s equivalent of Majestic, so I don’t think you have much right to be questioning Quinn’s loyalty.”
“I may be all that is left of Section Four,” Yakov said. “And we did not try to fly the mothership. Your Majestic was infiltrated by the Tiahuanaco guardian computer. I do not know if Section Four was infiltrated, but I do know it was destroyed by these aliens or their minions. I no longer know what is what and whom to trust.”
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br /> Turcotte nodded. “That’s something we need to talk about when Duncan gets here.”
“Do you trust anyone?” Yakov asked.
“Do you?”
“No one completely. You did not answer my question. Is there anyone you trust?” Turcotte’s answer was brief. “Dr. Duncan.”
“Why?”
Turcotte didn’t reply.
“You must think with your head, not your heart,” Yakov finally said. “I am,” Turcotte said shortly.
“I have seen the way you two look at each other. Such feelings can interfere with—”
Turcotte turned, looking up at the Russian. “I’m thinking with my head, but I trust with heart. Maybe that’s something you could learn.” He reached out and tapped the large man’s chest. “I almost trust you after what happened at Devil’s Island.” Turcotte returned his attention to the runway.
Yakov smiled. “Almost. That is good. That is as far as we should take things. In our profession it is never good to deal in absolutes.” The smile disappeared. “Let me ask you something, my almost trusted friend. Dr. Duncan got you involved with Area 51 and Majestic-12 in the first place, correct?”
Turcotte nodded, then realized the other man couldn’t see the gesture as a blast of wind reduced visibility to zero. “Yes!” he yelled.
“How did she know of what was going on here? Of Majestic-12?”
Turcotte had never really thought about that, and he hesitated answering. He decided to get to the other thing on his mind. “What about Tunguska? Why did General Hemstadt mention that just before he died? That we didn’t know what caused it?”
Yakov shook his head. “I have not been able to find out much. Maybe Hemstadt was trying to misdirect us. You have to understand—” Yakov began, but his attention was diverted; something was moving in the storm.
“There’s the bouncer.” Turcotte waved a flashlight, glad that the conversation had been interrupted. A silver-skinned, disk-shaped object hovered ten feet over the runway, moving slowly toward them. There was no visible means of propulsion and no windows in the skin of the craft, although Turcotte knew those on the inside could see out, the alien technology allowing light to pass through via a technique that those who had worked on the craft at Area 51 had yet to unravel. The bouncer, the nickname for the craft among the Air Force pilots who trained on them, descended until it came in contact with the runway twenty feet in front of Turcotte and Yakov. The official designation for the nine atmospheric alien craft was MDAC, or magnetic drive atmospheric craft. Two had been recovered nearby during the early days of World War II, parked in a cavern along with a massive mothership. That discovery was the reason Area 51 had been located at this remote site, since they had had no way to move the mile-long mothership from its hiding place.
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