Excavation (44 page)

“But why?”

“Because the temple is protecting its investment from its own biologic waste products. It can't risk some harm coming to its future source of raw genetic material. So it protects the villagers.”

“But if these creatures are a risk, why doesn't it just destroy the experiments once it's done with them? Why let them live?”

Maggie shrugged. “I'm not sure. Maybe the neighboring caldera is a part of the experiment, some natural testing ground for its creations. It monitors how they adapt and function in a real environment.”

“And what about the way they burn up when I stabbed them?”

“Spontaneous combustion. A fail-safe mechanism. Did you notice how Denal's guards had spears made of the same gold? A blow from one of these weapons, even a scratch, must set off some energy cascade. It's just another level of protection for the villagers.”

Sam stared at the temple, horror growing in his eyes. “It still sounds crazy. But considering what happened to Norman, I can't deny that you might be right.” He turned to Maggie. “But, if so, why is the temple doing all this? What is its ultimate goal? Who built it?”

Maggie frowned. She had no answer. She began to shake her head when a new noise intruded into the tunnel.

…
whump, whump, whump
…

Sam and Maggie both turned toward the tunnel's other end. It was coming from the valley beyond.

“C'mon,” Sam said excitedly. He led them at a fast clip toward the bright sunlight.

As they reached the end, squinting at the late morning's glare, Sam pointed. “Look! It's the cavalry!” Circling through the mists overhead was a dark shadow. As it descended farther,
the green-black body of a military transport helicopter came into sight. “It's Uncle Hank! Thank God!”

Maggie also sighed with relief. “I'll be glad to get the professor's take on all this.”

Sam put his arm around her. She didn't resist.

Then deeper down in the valley, a new sound challenged the beat of the rotors. A more rapid thumping:
drums
! It seemed the Incas had also spotted the strange bird entering their valley. The sharp clangs of beaten gongs began to ring through the valley, strident and angry.

Maggie glanced at Sam. “War drums.”

Sam's arm dropped from her shoulder; his grin faded. “I don't understand. Norman should've warned the Incas not to fear the professor or the others.”

“Something must've gone wrong.”

Sam now wore a deep frown. “I've got to reach my uncle and warn him.” He began to lead the way down the steep switchbacks.

Below in the valley, the helicopter descended toward the flat field of quinoa planted at the jungle's edge. The shafts of the plants were beaten flat by the rotor's wash.

Maggie followed. “But what about Norman?” she yelled over the roar of the helicopter.

Sam did not answer, but his pace increased.

 

Norman hid in the fringes of the jungle as the helicopter landed in the green meadow beyond. He kept tucked behind the leaves of a thorny bush; tiny green ants marched down a frond before his eyes, too busy to be bothered by the thumping beat of the helicopter as its skids settled into the field.

Norman, though, felt every thudding
whump
deep in his chest. Cringing, he prayed he was wrong and hoped he had misinterpreted Professor Conklin's words. “After all that's occurred this last week,” he mumbled to himself, “maybe I'm just being paranoid.” Still, Norman remained hidden as the passenger compartment of the chopper slid open. A part
of him knew that he was
not
wrong. Professor Conklin had been trying to warn Norman about something. But what?

The answer was soon apparent. A mix of men, some dressed in fatigues and jungle camouflage, others dressed in the brown robes of monks, clambered from the helicopter. The men, even the monks, moved too efficiently to be just a rescue team. Crated gear was off-loaded from a hatch and cracked open. Norman saw assault rifles passed from hand to hand. Several of the men knelt and attached grenade launchers to their weapons.

Norman hunkered down even lower. Oh, God! He hadn't been paranoid enough.

From deeper in the jungle, the drums and clanging gongs that had sounded from the Incan village fell silent. Norman held his breath. He was glad he had warned Pachacutec to prepare the village. If there had been no danger, the plan was for Norman to accompany the professor back to the village, halting any bloodshed and making introductions.

Norman considered returning to the village now. The Incas were prepared for hostilities, but not for this. He should warn them to flee. But Norman knew Pachacutec never would. The two had shared a long talk this morning, and it was clear the Incan king would brook no challenge to the tribe's autonomy. Pachacutec would not run.

So Norman remained hidden, peering through the fronded branches of his lookout post. The leader of the men, a rotund fellow outfitted in a safari suit and matching hat, barked orders and aligned his men for a march to the village. The men were quick to obey. In only ten minutes from the time the skids hit the ground, the assault team was under way. They operated with military precision.

A pair of men took the point. Crouching, they ran from under the blades of the helicopter and raced to the trailhead that led to the village. From their reconnaissance in the air, Norman was sure the twisted trails to the village had been mapped. The other four men followed more slowly, cautiously, guns at the ready. The large leader, red-faced and
covered in a sheen of sweat, moved behind them, armed with a pistol and flanked by a single guard for protection.

Norman waited until the entire troupe had vanished into the jungle to finally breathe. He sat hunched, unsure what to do. He had to get word to Sam. Trying to peer toward the cliff face that contained the temple's tunnel, he could determine nothing about their fate. The jungle blocked his view.

If he could maybe work his way through the jungle…

He started to shift when new voices froze him in place. He trembled, half-crouched. From the far side of the helicopter, two other men climbed from the helicopter. Norman instantly recognized the professor. He was unshaven, and his clothes looked like they had been slept in for a few days, but there was no mistaking his proud demeanor.

Henry stumbled a step forward, shoved at gunpoint by a tall dark man dressed in a monk's robe. The gunman had dark black hair and an even darker scowl. A silver cross glinted on his chest.

Norman did not understand all this religious garb. Clearly it was some ruse.

Voices reached him as the pair stepped farther away from the helicopter. “You will cooperate with us fully,” the dark man said, “or the student at the dig will suffer the same fate as the woman friend of yours.”

Norman saw Henry's shoulders slump slightly, defeated. He nodded.

From his hiding place, Norman clenched his fists in helpless frustration. The gunman had to have been referring to Philip. The Harvard student must be held hostage back at the camp.

“The collected prisoners will be questioned,” the man continued. “You will help in the interrogation.”

“I understand,” Henry snapped back. “But if my nephew or any of the others are harmed, you can all go fuck yourselves.”

The man's countenance grew even darker, but he just
stepped back. He used his free hand to slip out a cigarette.

Norman shifted his crouched position, his right hand landing upon a chunk of volcanic rock. He clutched the rock and stared back at the sole man holding the professor captive. Norman worked the red rock free. If he sneaked along that ridge of basalt, it would put the helicopter between him and the guard. Norman already began to move, sidling along the jungle's edge. He knew even the chopper's pilot had left with the assault team, leaving only the single guard. It was a risk, but one that could save them all. If he could free the professor, they could flee together and join Sam's group.

Norman reached the folded ridge of volcanic basalt, took a deep breath, then broke from cover and dashed across the open few yards to reach the cover of the ridge. He dived back into the welcome shadows, waiting for bullets to pepper the slope behind him, sure he had been seen. Nothing happened. He leaned a moment on the rough rock. He raised the chunk of volcanic stone, suddenly questioning how smart this was. Before fear could immobilize him, he pushed onward, scuttling like a crab in the shadow of the basalt ridge.

Once he was sure he had gone far enough, he risked a quick peek over the ridge. He was right. The bulk of the helicopter stood between him and the gunman. Norman climbed over the ridge as quietly as possible. The soft scrape of rock sounded explosively loud, but Norman knew it was all in his head. Besides, he was committed. Out in the open.

He ran with the rock clutched to his chest, his heart pounding so loudly that even the Incas at the village could probably hear it. But he made it to the shadow of the helicopter. He knelt and spotted the feet of the two men on the far side. They seemed unaware of his presence.

Crawling under the helicopter, Norman moved around the extra fuel tanks. Strands of quinoa tickled his arms as he sneaked to the far side of the chopper. Ahead, both the professor
and the gunman stood, their backs to him. The pair stared toward the jungle. The robed guard exhaled a long trail of smoke.

Holding his breath and biting his lip, Norman slipped free. He could either creep slowly, thus avoiding any obstacles…or simply make a mad dash toward his quarry. But Norman didn't trust his shaky legs with speed. So he stepped cautiously, placing one foot after the other, edging toward the gunman.

He was only an arm's length away when all hell broke loose.

Explosions suddenly rocked the valley. The center of the jungle ripped far into the sky, flaming shards raining down.

Norman gasped at the sight, unable to stop his surprised response.

Hearing him, the gunman twisted on a heel and dropped to a crouch.

Norman found himself staring at the business end of a pistol. “Drop it!” the man ordered.

There was no need for words. The rock in Norman's hand was already falling from his numb fingers.

From the jungles, screams and yells echoed forth. Gunfire rattled like a cupful of teeth.

Over the man's head, Norman spotted Henry. He wore a look of hopelessness and defeat.

Norman slumped, matching the expression. “I'm sorry, Professor.”

 

Sam stumbled to a stop when the first explosion tore through the valley. He crouched slightly at the rain of flaming debris. “What the hell—?”

Denal crouched down, too.

Maggie was at Sam's shoulder, her eyes wide. “They're attacking the village!”

Sam stayed low. “Uncle Hank would never do that.”

“What if it's not the professor,” Maggie said. “Maybe
someone else saw the signal fires. Thieves.
Huaqueros
. Maybe even the same bastards who tried to tunnel into our dig last week. Maybe they intercepted our radio messages an' beat Uncle Hank here.”

Sam sank to the slope. “What are we going to do?”

Maggie's eyes were fierce. “Stop them.” She nodded toward where the helicopter rested in the field, half-obscured by a peninsula of jungle. “Take that out, and these thieves aren't going anywhere. Then call the professor and warn him to come with the police or army.” She turned to Sam. “We can't let them murder and steal what we found here.”

Sam was nodding with her words. “You're right. We have to at least try.” He stood up. “I'll go and reconnoiter the site. See what's up.”

“No,” Maggie argued. “We remain together.”

Sam frowned, but Maggie's expression did not budge.

Even Denal nodded his head. “I go, too.” Sam caught the way the boy glanced up at the tunnel entrance. Denal was not being heroic; he just didn't want to be left alone…especially naked and weaponless.

Sam stood and surveyed the valley.

Automatic gunfire echoed up from the jungle. Other explosions would occasionally erupt, tossing trees and rocks into the sky. Amidst the weapons fire, whispers of Incan war cries mixed with the screams of the dying. Smoke billowed up and through the jungle.

“Okay,” Sam said. “We all go. But stick together and keep quiet. We'll sneak to the jungle's edge and creep as close to the chopper as possible. Find out if there are any guards.”

Maggie nodded and waved him forward.

Sam hurried down the last of the switchbacks and led them through the escarpment of volcanic boulders and scrub bushes. Soon the shadows of the jungle swallowed up the trio. Sam raised a finger to his lips and guided them with hand signals. Within the embrace of the forest, the sounds of
warfare grew muffled.

Crouching, Sam picked a path through the foliage. They had to get to the helicopter before the thieves finished subduing the village. Sam prayed that there were some backup weapons in the helicopter. If they were to hold the valley until Uncle Hank got there, they would need their own fire-power.

The shadowy jungle grew brighter ahead. It was the forest's edge. Sam slowed his approach. Now was not the time to be caught. He signaled the others to hang back. Sam alone crept the last of the way. Just as he was fingering away a splayed leaf of a jungle fern, a familiar voice reached him.

“Leave the boy alone, Otera! There's no reason to hurt him.”

Uncle Hank!

Sam pulled back the leaf to view the open meadow beyond. The large military helicopter squatted like some monstrous locust upon the field of quinoa. But closer still was a sight that froze Sam's blood. His uncle stood before a man dressed in a monk's habit, but the man was no disciple of god. He bore in his right fist a large pistol. Sam, familiar with guns, recognized it as a .357 Spanish Astra. It was a weapon capable of stopping a charging bull—and it was pointed at his uncle's chest.