“It was slightly blurred,” Kurt admitted, “but not too bad, considering the circumstances. Which way did it travel?”
Urco pointed to the north. “It came in from that direction, crossed over the clearing and continued south.”
The time interval was right, but the direction seemed off. Although Hiram had suggested the Nighthawk’s right wing appeared to be damaged. That might account for the change.
Kurt chose his next words with care. Urco was obviously a man of great intelligence. He was worldly even if the people who worked for him were relatively simple. Kurt had found truth worked better with such people, better than even the most carefully crafted lies. “What if I told you it wasn’t a meteor in the sky that morning?”
Urco’s face scrunched up, his weathered skin wrinkling, the beard shifting, but hiding any true expression. “I would have to agree with you,” he said. “Up here, one sees shooting stars on a regular basis. No city lights to blind us. I posted the video as a lark, but as the day wore on I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I must admit, my later impression was of something larger and closer. Lower to the Earth, I think.”
“I think so, too,” Kurt said. “I believe you saw an experimental American spacecraft that reentered the atmosphere and went off course. We—and by that I mean NUMA and the United States government—are very interested in finding the crash site. If you help us now, I can promise you, with a high degree of certainty, that you’ll never be turned down for a grant again.”
Urco nodded as if considering the possibilities. “Perhaps we can help each other,” he said. “Have you ever heard of my theory?”
“Afraid not,” Kurt said.
Urco didn’t take offense. “It’s called Civilization Wave Theory. It’s adapted from a field known as cataclysmic evolution, which is the belief that a new form cannot prosper until the existing, dominant form subsides. Mammals, which rule the planet today, were nothing more than scurrying rodents for the first hundred million years of their existence. Surviving only because they were beneath the dinosaur’s majestic notice. But after the Chicxulub meteor impact, the dinosaurs fell. In the blink of an eye, the entire playing field was leveled; indeed, tilted toward small animals with warm blood and fur. And so the rise of the mammals began.”
Kurt nodded.
“My theory suggests that civilization changes in much the same way. Nothing new can rise until the old, dominant power is swept away. Usually by a catastrophe beyond its control.”
“For instance?”
“Being a man of the sea, I’m sure you’re familiar with the sudden collapse of the Minoan empire.”
“Of course,” Kurt said. “After dominating the Mediterranean for centuries, the Minoans were weakened by the tsunamis that hit their island after the eruption of Santorini.”
“Precisely,” Urco said, “but they weren’t wiped out. They still existed. They hung on for centuries in a diminished capacity. But the effect was a changing of the playing field; it was now tilted toward other civilizations of the region. The Mycenaean civilization in particular. Something that would never have happened were it not for the cataclysm.”
Kurt nodded again.
“You see the same thing here,” Urco told him. “Originally, the Chachapoya were more powerful than the Inca, but catastrophe struck them from the outside—not once, but twice.”
Kurt settled in; he loved a good history lesson. “How so?”
“At the end, it was the diseases,” Urco admitted. “But long before that, these people faced another catastrophe. You can find the evidence in a body of water known as the Lake of the Condors, fifty miles from here.”
Kurt had heard something about Lake of the Condors when reading Urco’s website. “There are Chachapoya ruins there as well.”
“Indeed,” Urco said. “Extensive ruins in the cliffs all around it. Everyone knows about these. But what I found is different. Evidence that a major settlement had once thrived on the valley floor, stretching from one side to the other and up into the foothills.”
“This, I hadn’t heard,” Kurt said.
“Few have,” Urco insisted. “Thousands lived within the walls of this city, which made it a very large settlement for its day. They were protected by a strong warrior caste, with some of the finest weapons of the time. I assure you, these men shrank before no one, and for several centuries the Chachapoya were the power of the region, taking tribute from other groups. But then the disaster came upon them.”
“What happened?”
“The city was built in the sheltered area between the mountains. It received its water from the snowmelt and a mountain lake, higher up in the range,” Urco said. “A massive earthquake in the eighth century released the contents of that lake all at once. A fifty-foot wall of water crashed into the city in the dark of night. It drowned the city. The people were trapped. They died by the thousands. It was Noah without any warning from God. Pompeii without the ash. By daybreak, there was nothing left. The wealth was gone; the warriors were gone. The city itself was gone. The reign of the Chachapoya, unbreakable at sunset, was swept away by morning. And in its aftermath the Inca began their storied rise.”
Kurt had no idea if there was any merit to the tale, but he found it fascinating. “Were there any survivors?”
“A few hundred,” Urco said. “Those who’d lived higher up in the hills. When they tried to rebuild their civilization, they did things differently, constructing their dwellings in the cliffs instead of on the valley floors, where they felt they’d be safe from any future disaster. At first it was simple logic, but as time went by it became their way, their religion. They became the People of the Clouds.”
“Can’t say I blame them,” Kurt added.
“Indeed,” Urco said. “Who could sleep on the low ground after surviving a night like that?”
“Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” Kurt said. “What do you need us for?”
“To help me prove it.”
“By exploring the lake,” Kurt surmised.
Urco nodded. “The Peruvian government has given me a permit but denied all my requests for funding or help. They have a vested interest in not diminishing the appeal of the mighty Inca. And I lack the funds to mount a submerged expedition myself. But I tell you, at the bottom of that lake is a flooded city the likes of which no one has ever seen.”
The idea of unearthing something that would change the accepted history appealed to Kurt, but they had a more pressing issue. “I’m sure something could be arranged,” he said. “You help me, I’ll help you.”
Urco stroked his bushy beard. “I was hoping we could do it the other way around.”
“The problem is, time,” Kurt said. “I have to find this missing aircraft before I do anything else. I don’t say this lightly, but everyone here is in danger until that plane is found.”
Urco looked at him with a powerful gaze. “Why would we be in danger?”
“Because NUMA isn’t the only group looking for the missing aircraft. Agents from several other countries are after it as well. They’ve tried to kill my partner and me several times already. Including on the way up here.”
“On the way up here?” Urco asked, suspicious.
“We were attacked on the road,” Kurt said.
“They could still be following you.”
“Not unless they can fly,” Kurt said. “But others will come. And they’re not the kind of people who are interested in striking deals. They won’t hesitate to torture or kill everyone here to get what they’re after.”
Urco sighed and looked away. “I put nothing past selfish men,” he said. “My research has shown it’s our nature to fight and oppress. But how will helping you protect us? Wouldn’t these other groups be more likely to resort to violence if they knew we had chosen sides?”
“All they care about is the missing aircraf
t,” Kurt said. “Once we have it, they’ll have no reason to be here. The danger will be gone.”
Urco took a minute to ponder Kurt’s words. Finally, he looked Kurt in the eye once again. “Nothing good happens to small people when they get in the way of the great powers. Better that this thing is found and taken away so we can continue on with our lives.”
“So you’ll help us?”
“I will. What do you need?”
“Only for you to show me where you were standing when you took the video. Once we match up the surrounding peaks with what’s on the recording, we can extrapolate the precise direction of the craft and make a good estimate of its speed and altitude. With that information, we’ll be able to find the landing site in a matter of hours and haul it away.”
“And once that’s done?” Urco asked.
“I’ll make sure it’s well known that we’ve recovered the vehicle intact,” Kurt promised. “I’ll even tell the world where we found it so that anyone who wants to look for themselves can bypass you and go straight to the crash site.”
Urco stroked his beard. “Very well,” he said. “Then I will help you gladly. But first . . . we eat.”
28
The mountain road to La Jalca had been blocked. The bridge was gone; its twisted metal frame now lay at the bottom of the canyon while the road itself was covered with a swath of gravel, boulders and rock ten feet deep—remnants of the avalanche unleashed by the errant Chinese missile.
The man who’d fired that missile was gone as well, but Daiyu and Jian had escaped by driving back into the shelter of the tunnel and staying put until the rumbling ceased. They sat in darkness until the choking dust began to settle and a small gap of light appeared near the top of the tunnel.
“We should go back,” Jian suggested. “We have a helicopter waiting in Cajamarca. We should make contact with command, secure reinforcements and fly to the ruins. Take them from the sky.”
Daiyu shook her head. “We go forward,” she insisted. “Not back. If we keep up a good pace, we can reach La Jalca by midnight. Take them in their sleep.”
“We’re at a disadvantage now,” he argued. “The kill team is gone. The Americans know we’re following them.”
“If anything, they think we’re dead,” she replied. “That gives us the advantage. And remember, our mission is to prevent the Americans from finding the Nighthawk at all costs. Driving all the way back to Cajamarca, reaching out to General Zhang and waiting for more support, will take far too long. We must go forward. You start clearing a way through and I’ll gather the weapons and supplies.”
Jian stared at her for a moment and then did as ordered. He stepped from the car, climbed onto the rubble pile and began digging with his bare hands. The loose gravel was easy to move and the small boulders and rocks were no match for his great strength. He tossed them aside with ease and before long he’d dug enough of a channel for them to squirm through.
He emerged into the fresh air, covered from head to toe in dust. Daiyu came out behind him, handed him a backpack and pulled on one of her own. As she scanned the slope for a safe route to take, Jian picked his way to the edge of the cliff, looking for the other car.
“Don’t bother,” she called out. “They’re gone.”
He knew that. He looked anyway. It was a long drop. There was no sign of the car at the bottom, just a sloping pile of rock that had buried it.
As Jian stared into the abyss, Daiyu looked upward. A trick of the inner ear, caused by tilting the head backward, exaggerated the grade of the hill. Even knowing that, she was impressed that the Americans had managed to climb it without flipping their vehicle or rolling back down the hill. She’d underestimated them, something she would not do again.
She turned to Jian. “Ready?”
He nodded.
She pointed to a trail on the right. “This way looks to have better traction. Follow me.”
The climb was more perilous on foot than in a vehicle. Thorny bushes and high-mountain cacti clawed at them mercilessly. Loose rocks shifted with each step, threatening to turn their ankles and send them sliding back toward the road below, while the air at nearly ten thousand feet was thin enough to leave them light-headed. By the time they reached the roadway above, they were scratched, bleeding and breathing hard.
Daiyu stood with her hands on her hips. Though the temperature was cool, she was sweating in the sun.
“Rest here for a minute,” she said, taking a drink of the water and handing the bottle to Jian. “I’m going to scout ahead.”
While Jian drank, Daiyu walked along the road. It continued upward and curved to the left. Beyond that, it flattened out. They were near the top. The plateau lay ahead of them.
As she waited for Jian to catch up, she caught the sound of an engine in the distance. Squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, she spied a small box truck coming toward them. It was old and worn, a workhorse that showed the wear and tear of too many runs in the mountains. Dented in places, it listed to one side, trailing oil smoke from its exhaust pipe. Still, it would be far better than walking the rest of the way.
She waved it down.
With her long hair set in a ponytail and a backpack over her shoulders, she looked like any other hiker on a trail.
The truck stopped beside her and the passenger window rolled down. A man with rough black hair and a dark face looked out at her. He had small, dark eyes. A similar man was at the wheel. Both were more native than European.
“Are you all right?” the passenger asked in Spanish.
“I need some help,” she replied, also in Spanish. “The bridge is out. It collapsed. There must have been an earthquake because there was a rockslide as well.”
The men looked over the dashboard. Down the slope, they saw the rubble covering the road and the empty span where the bridge should have been. What they didn’t see was Daiyu pulling a Chinese-made pistol from her jacket.
She fired three shots before either of them reacted. All three hit the passenger.
She yanked the door open and pulled him out. He landed dead at her feet as the driver threw his hands up.
“Get out,” she ordered.
He fumbled for the door handle and unlatched it, falling from the truck in his haste. It wasn’t fast enough. Daiyu shot him, a single bullet to the head that killed him instantly.
By the time Jian reached her, she’d dragged both dead men to the edge of the bank and shoved them over. They tumbled a short distance and then slid limply down the slope until catching on separate bushes halfway to the bottom.
“You didn’t have to kill them,” Jian said. “They could have been useful. They might have had information.”
She put the pistol away. “Bringing them along would be a distraction. And by leaving them here, we’d risk the chance of someone spotting them and setting them free.”
She climbed behind the wheel as Jian took the passenger’s seat. After a precarious three-point turn, she got the truck moving back toward La Jalca.
The poor truck never topped twenty miles an hour going uphill, but once they were out on the flat top of the plateau, it picked up speed until they were traveling close to forty.
Daiyu checked the time. Instead of reaching La Jalca at midnight, they’d be there by dusk. They might just catch the Americans after all.
29
Cajamarca, Peru
The streets of Cajamarca were cold and wet. A brief spell of rain had left mud in the gutters and puddles everywhere. Rain in the mountains was always a cold rain. The damp got into the bones. Paul and Gamay would have preferred snow.
Walking along the sidewalk, Paul pulled his coat around him and flipped up his collar. “I think someone is following us,” he whispered.
“The guy in the colorful poncho,” Gamay said. “I’ve seen him three times since leaving the airport.”
&nbs
p; It might have been a good way to blend, as many of the natives of Cajamarca wore similar ponchos in the cold months, but the pattern was unique and Paul and Gamay both had an eye for fashion.
Catching sight of the man in the reflection of a store window, Paul nodded. The pattern was the same; the fur-lined boots were the same. The man was the same.
“What do you say we get off the main street,” he suggested.
“If it means somewhere warm . . .”
“How about this place,” Paul said, pointing to a brightly painted Internet café.
Gamay read the sign. “Strong java, stronger Internet, 4K video. Let’s go.”
They stepped inside, watched through the glass as the man passed by and saw him return a moment later. Instead of coming in, he sat at the bus stop across the road, apparently content to watch.
Paul was fine with that. He and Gamay moved deeper into the narrow building. Thankful for the warmth, as much as anything.
The café was busy, the coffee, computers and young people creating a perpetual buzz. They found a spot with access to both the front and back doors, logged on to a computer and spent a few minutes browsing.
“Do you think our friend is going to sneak in anytime soon?” Paul asked.
“Doubt it,” Gamay said, “but we’ll see him if he does.”
“In that case, I’m going to make a phone call.”
He stepped away from the desk, found a ladder to the roof and climbed it. Popping out through a trapdoor, Paul climbed onto the roof and lowered the door gently behind him. He wasn’t looking to escape; he just needed a clear view of the sky.
After linking up to the NUMA communications system, Paul was patched through to Hiram Yaeger. He got right to the point. “Kurt needs you and Priya to hack into the NSA’s database.”
Of all the staff at NUMA, Hiram Yaeger was the least afraid to flout authority—it was half the reason he kept his hair long and wore decidedly non-corporate clothes to work. But he was surprised to hear this request from one of NUMA’s most buttoned-down officers. “Who are you?” he asked. “And what have you done with Paul?”
Nighthawk Page 19