by Clay Farrow
Amanda continued, "A syllable glyph, or syllabogram, is made from a consonant and vowel combination or a single vowel. Telling the difference is really hard because you can combine multiple syllables as well as syllables and a word into a single glyph. To make it even more complicated, different word glyphs can mean the same thing and, in some cases, the same glyph can mean different words depending on the context of the phrase."
"Now, I'm totally confused. Why so complex?"
Monica hadn't realized Amanda had absorbed such an understanding of Maya writing. She was amused at Amanda's efforts to impress her new acquaintance. Earlier on the soccer field, the conversation had been light-hearted; now her tone was solemn and her vocabulary professorial, befitting such a weighty subject.
"Scribes held a special status in Maya culture," Amanda said. "They worked in the royal court and treated calligraphy as art. Glyphs were intentionally visually complicated."
"I guess it's easy to make a mistake."
"Very easy."
Rick shook his head and made a face. "Why doesn't everybody make it easy on themselves and just speak English?"
Monica sensed Rick's concentration was waning. She understood his primary interest was not in Mayan hieroglyphs but in his young teacher. "Are you on vacation, Rick?" she asked in an attempt to change the subject before Rick's mounting boredom was noticed by Amanda.
"No, business," he replied, glancing at his watch. His head snapped back and his eyes shot wide open. "Oh, my goodness."
15:
Great Blue Hole, Belize – Tuesday
Hilton Hastings swung the bow of the dive boat into the sun and popped the throttle. The ride back from the Great Blue Hole would take an hour or so. Loaded with ten guests, two dive masters, thirteen sets of diving equipment and himself, the craft shuddered for a moment before its hull struggled up out of the water. The powerful inboard slowly gathered speed until the bow was hydroplaning over the surface of the Caribbean on the westward journey back to the resort. Squinting into the sun, Hilton shielded his eyes with his hand to get his bearings, made a fractional correction, and settled back.
Named as one of the top ten scuba sites in the world by the late Jacques Cousteau, the Great Blue Hole was a circular sinkhole sixty miles off the coast of Belize. Surrounded by a reef complex measuring a thousand feet across, the more than 400-foot wide hole plunged 412 feet into the ocean floor's crust. The Blue Hole was a decompression dive, and Hilton had the foresight to anchor spare tanks and regulators at a thirty-foot depth for the divers to decompress.
He listened to the excited chatter of the guests with one ear, satisfied each had an exhilarating time. An additional clue that this had been a successful dive was the blonde quartet's pawing and pestering had ceased.
Until they had reached the start of the stalactite filled caverns, about a hundred feet below the surface, the foursome had discovered countless excuses to brush their bikinied bodies up against his. He tolerated their flirtatious advances with as much good grace as he could muster and was more than grateful when the wonder of the Blue Hole took hold. Once they encountered twenty to sixty-foot stalactites, some ten feet in diameter, the flirtatious teasing was replaced by unrestrained awe.
The rhythmic slap of the bow hitting the chop and the hoarse growl of the cruiser's 355 horsepower diesel inboard lulled him into his own world.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hastings," a feminine voice shouted over the noise of the engine.
Hilton glanced over his shoulder as a young brunette in her early twenties made her way up from the stern. "Candice Black isn't it? Enjoying your honeymoon?"
Candice nodded. "We're having a terrific time. We loved this afternoon's dive. Could I ask you a question?" she inquired apprehensively.
"Sure."
"I was wondering if you are the Hastings of the investment firm Hastings-Alderman in Pittsburgh?"
"I am, and it's Hilton."
His informality seemed to put her more at ease, and she sat in the vacant cockpit seat opposite him.
"I'm from Pittsburgh, too. We did a case study of your company at U of P last year. The thing is, our professor wasn't very clear in explaining how you'd taken staid, old-line companies and within a year or two doubled the stock price. You did it time and again."
"The secret was in my partner Dylan's research on the takeover candidates and my understanding of computer tech … "
It happened so suddenly, Hilton's reaction was guided by instinct. Hidden by the boat's aluminum canopy, running the length of the cockpit, he hadn't seen it until it was on top of him. So intent on his conversation with Candice, he hadn't heard it.
An olive-green helicopter with no markings dropped from the sky and remained suspended a few feet off the bow.
Hilton slammed the outboard into neutral and twisted the wheel violently to the right. The vessel heeled over at such a brutal angle, water washed over the gunwale. Hilton was only vaguely aware of the surprised cries from the aft of the boat. He barely felt the wind and water whipped up by the apparition. He glanced up. Looming above him, framed by the chopper's cockpit windshield was the face of a ghost. A face much changed, but unmistakable. A face he had left for dead almost twenty years earlier.
He bludgeoned the throttle with the heel of his hand. The engine whined, while the blades of the prop chewed at the water. The helicopter rose and swooped after the retreating craft, then hovered, maintaining a steady ten-yard gap off the starboard bow.
"Deep six the gear," Hilton yelled.
He glanced over his shoulder at the flurry of activity behind him. The men, guests and the other dive masters bolted off the benches lining the sides of the boat. They ripped the scuba tanks and weight belts from the storage racks, in the center of the craft, and tossed them overboard.
A mechanical voice from the heavens echoed across the sea. "Hastings, you bastard, pull up. Heave to."
Hilton swung the helm to the left, aiming the vessel back into the sun, away from the chopper. The aircraft pulled up in a lazy arc and swung down over the bow of the vessel. Hilton was blinded as the chopper pivoted ninety degrees on its axis. The cabin doors had been removed, replaced by an eight-foot wide tunnel, funneling the sun directly into his eyes. Unable to see, he pulled back on the throttle.
Hilton saw him. The baseball cap and sunglasses couldn't disguise Alberto Guerra standing in the chopper's doorway, a large cigar clamped in his teeth. A Belize Defense Force soldier with an AK-47 stepped into view beside Guerra. He didn't believe it. With Guerra in command the soldier wasn't with the BDF, he had to be part of the Guatemalan military. If that assumption was correct, then he had a major problem.
Alberto tossed the cigar into the ocean and raised a megaphone to his mouth. "Hastings, you're the only one I want. The others are free to go."
Hilton turned to the other occupants of the boat. "Everyone alright?"
The blonde quartet huddled together on the floor. One of the women looked over at Hilton and shouted, "We're fine for the time being."
The men, cuddling their girlfriends and wives, nodded grimly. Matthew, one of the dive masters, reached beneath the bench and gripped a spear gun. Hilton shook his head. He waved Matthew away from the gun before turning back to the helicopter.
Hilton had always considered the safety of his guests first and foremost, but this was different. If he let Guerra take him, he was a dead man. He glanced down at the anchor stowed under the foredeck, then back at the hovering chopper.
The aircraft floated no more than nine feet above the ocean waves. The anchor had thirty feet of rope attached to it. The chopper's engine was far more powerful than the boat's, but just maybe he had the element of surprise in his favor. If he could hook the anchor to the landing skids and drive underneath the chopper, he might be able to capsize the aircraft, causing the Huey to crash.
"Make up your mind, Hastings, we haven't all day," Alberto shouted through the bullhorn. "It's either you, or I sink the boat."
Hilton rea
ched under the foredeck for the anchor, then gunned the boat. Leaning out from under the aluminum canopy, he swung the anchor as he let out the rope. The soldier beside Guerra didn't flinch. He snapped the rifle butt into the crook of his shoulder and fired. The spray from the burst of lead slashed into the water inches from the hull of the dive boat.
Hilton cut the engine and climbed out of the cockpit onto the foredeck. Continuing this foolishness would only succeed in getting the others killed. He resigned himself to whatever fate Guerra had in store for him.
"Hilton, what does the Belize Defense Force want with you?" Matthew asked, slipping into the captain's chair.
"Trust me, they aren't BDF. I recognize the civilian. I'm willing to bet that chopper belongs to the Guatemalan Army."
A rescue harness, tethered to a cable, was lowered from the helicopter.
"Put it on," Alberto growled into the bullhorn.
As Hilton glanced up at the chopper two more armed BDF personnel appeared in the cabin doorway. He sensed he was in no immediate danger; Guerra wanted him alive, at least for the present. But he was concerned about the others.
He stepped toward Matthew and shouted over the chopper's whirling rotors, "As soon as I'm lifted off the deck, get out of here. I'll try to cover you as best I can. Drive directly under the chopper, don't worry about me. Get everyone back to the resort safely then contact the authorities."
"Hastings, quit beating your gums and hook yourself up," Alberto roared through the megaphone.
Hilton slipped the rescue webbing under his arms and tightened the straps. He looked up at Guerra. As the chopper's winch began to take up the slack, Hilton inched closer to the cruiser’s windshield.
"Go! Go! Go!" he screamed.
Matthew threw open the throttle. The boat sprang forward. The tip of the bow shot under the chopper. The soldiers snapped their rifle butts to their shoulders. Hilton threw himself spread-eagled onto the aluminum canopy to shield the passengers and his employees against a volley of gunfire.
"Don't fire," Alberto bellowed into the bullhorn. "I want him alive!"
As the dive boat blew under the helicopter, the rescue cable went taut. Hilton was jerked toward the stern of the craft. He tumbled down the thin metal sunshade like a bouncing ball, leaving a trail of dents in his wake. The outboard shot out from under the helicopter, heading due west. Hilton bounced off the end of the aluminum sunscreen, then dropped like a rock. He twisted at the end of the cable, just feet above the surface of the Caribbean.
He had been hoisted into the chopper and now towered over the soldiers seated on either side of him. Directly across from him sat a grinning Alberto Guerra. He tensed as his captor leaned forward, their faces inches apart. With bulging eyes and drops of spittle flying with every word, Hilton sensed the man was in such a frenetic state that he was moments away from having a heart attack.
"The prison at Santa Elena is going to be your new home for the rest of your miserable life, you bastard. Believe me when I tell you, your death will be very, very painful and will take many, many years."
Hilton cast a quick glance at the barren western horizon. Thankfully, the dive boat passengers and crew had escaped unharmed. Now, he had to turn his attention to his own freedom or face the prospect of disappearing into a Guatemalan prison for the rest of what would probably be, a very bleak and unhappy life.
"Don't ignore me, you bastard," Alberto screamed, slapping Hilton with an open hand.
"Señor Guerra," Captain Romero shouted, "there's a radio message for you."
Alberto squeezed into the cramped cockpit and conferred with the pilot. After the brief exchange he nodded, patted the man on the back, and returned to his seat.
"Cuff him," he said to a soldier beside Hilton. "Wrists and ankles. We've an unscheduled pickup."
Hilton was frantic. Once the shackles were on it was game, set and match. All avenues of escape would be closed off. He had to do something now. But what? Nothing presented itself as an immediate solution. He estimated their altitude was 140 feet above the surface of the ocean.
Why couldn't he simply throw himself out of the chopper? It would be a far better end than wasting away in some godforsaken prison cell, enduring endless days of torture. He froze. It was a crazy idea that didn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. Could he escape four armed men? Maybe not, but they wouldn't start blazing away in the confines of the cabin. If they got trigger happy, they'd down the chopper.
He glanced out of the helicopter to determine their location. They were coming up on the northern tip of Hick's Cays. It was an insane notion, but he hadn't come up with anything better and time was not on his side.
The soldier beside him rose slightly, reached down and flipped open a wooden box sitting under the bench. Inside were a number of handcuffs and leg irons linked together with three feet of chain. As the soldier rose with a set of shackles in hand, the helicopter lurched, causing him to lose his balance. The man toppled onto the bench by the open chopper door.
Hilton didn't wait for an invitation. He lunged at the soldier. With his hands on the soldier's butt, he slid the man off the end of the bench and out of the cabin. The uniformed man tumbled out of sight, his shrill scream hanging in the air. Hilton wheeled and charged the other guard who was struggling to his feet. Grabbing his rifle with both hands, Hilton spun the soldier so he was between himself, Alberto and the third soldier.
Alberto was already on his feet, pushing back. He was joined by his seatmate. Hammering the surprised soldier into the two men, Hilton attempted to pin them against the wall. His three opponents were too strong and slowly forced him toward the gaping doorway.
He was steadily losing ground, his bare feet sliding across the metal floor of the cabin. One foot slipped over the threshold into space. He fell back. His head and shoulders were out of the cabin door, being buffeted by the downward pressure of the rotors' slipstream. Teetering on the lip of the chopper's doorway, he desperately clung to the AK-47 silently pleading for enough time to pull himself into position, only to watch in mute horror as the soldier released the rifle.
16:
Altun Ha – Tuesday
Liz Dennison paid the cabbie and hopped out of the taxi. On her arrival she had spotted their rental SUV at the far end of the parking lot and walked over to the vehicle. The doors were unlocked and the keys in the ignition, but no Richie.
His message had been waiting for her when she returned to the Princess Hotel. She glanced at the cryptic note written on hotel stationery by a clerk: 'Dr. Fremont at Altun Ha. Will meet you at Ballgame court. Rick.' Her first reaction - I'll tear that mousey little rat apart when I catch up to him. That was quickly followed by a question – what is an Altun Ha? Once she had learned it was an archaeological site, she called Ken Byers. He ordered her to relay that information to the senator through his cousin in Guatemala, which she did.
On the ride from Belize City, she simmered down. She reasoned that Richie did the smart thing by staying close to the Fremont woman. If he had lost her, they'd be back to square one. But she was beginning to lose patience after fifteen minutes of searching and still no Richie. Loving the tropical heat was one thing, but enough was enough. A few more minutes of this ninety plus percent humidity and she'd be on her knees.
She had made her way from the parking lot into a large, well maintained plaza, which according to her site map was Plaza A. To her right was the Temple of the Green Tomb. She was almost through Plaza B when she heard the high-pitched voice of a young girl coming from the other side of a stone wall.
"Rick, hurry! Kick it to me before he gets it."
Liz hurried around the wall and almost crashed into a teenage girl chasing after a soccer ball.
"Liz," Richie said, "I was wondering where you were?"
"I've been looking for you," Liz growled. Inside she began to seethe – Richie was playing ball with some kid and not keeping an eye on Fremont. Her cheeks began to flush and her hands started to shake. She stalked over to
Richie, ready to pounce.
"Dr. Fremont is Amanda's aunt," Richie blurted out. "Amanda, this is my boss, Liz Dennison."
Liz rocked back on her heels. Richie had saved her from making a catastrophic blunder. She inhaled deeply, buying time to get her anger under control.
"Her aunt's a really neat archaeologist," he added.
Turning to Amanda, she forced a smile and said, "In that case, I'd like to meet your aunt."
"She's in the cave system under the Temple of Masonry Altars."
"Could you please show me where that is?" Liz asked, thankful her heart rate was gradually returning to normal.
"Sure, follow us."
The two kids, dogged by a scruffy mutt they called Tramp, led her up the steps to the top of the partially restored temple, then down a steep spiral stairway and through a series of interconnected caves to the elusive Dr. Monica Fremont. Once the introductions were over, the young duo hurried back to their soccer game.
Liz glanced at her watch for the third time in as many minutes, too preoccupied to pay attention to Monica’s small talk.
The two women were seated on the uneven floor of a floodlit cave which Monica had told her was part of a six-mile subterranean river system. She wondered if she should excuse herself and try to find her way out? No. In this apparently endless labyrinth she couldn't afford to let Monica out of her sight. A subtle interrogation could be time well spent, she thought.
"What is the most significant artifact found here?" Liz asked.
"That's easy. A jade head of the Maya Sun God, Kinich Ahau, was found here in 1968 by Dr. Robert Pendergast of the Royal Ontario Museum. The head is the largest carved jade object found in the Mayan world to date. It weighs almost ten pounds and stands close to six inches tall."
"What about you? What's the most significant artifact you've found?"
Monica remained silent for a moment, then replied. "A drinking vessel was the most interesting artifact I've worked with. It wasn't found here, but at Tikal by a close associate. The clay mug wasn't unique, but rather the hieroglyphics painted on it. A complex formula with fourteen ingredients and step-by-step preparation instructions which I deciphered."