Inca Gold - Cussler Clive (читаем полную версию книг бесплатно txt) 📗

    When the Mexican official left the conference room, he looked like a man who had stood by and watched as his wife ran off with the plumber and his dog was run over by a milk truck. As soon as he was gone, Ragsdale, who had sat back and quietly absorbed the conversation, turned to Gaskill.

    "Well, if nothing else, they don't know we knocked over their illegal storage facility."

    "Let's hope they remain in the dark for another two days."

    "Did you take an inventory of the stolen goods?" asked Pitt.

    "The quantity was so great, it will take weeks to thoroughly itemize every object."

    "Do you recall seeing any Southwestern Indian religious idols, carved from cottonwood?"

    Gaskill shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

    "Please let me know if you do. I have an Indian friend who would like them back."

    Ragsdale nodded at Sandecker. "How do you read the situation, Admiral?" he asked.

    "The Zolars have promised the moon," Sandecker said. "I'm beginning to believe that if they were arrested, half the citizenry of the state of Sonora would rise up and break them out of jail."

    "They'll never allow Loren and Rudi to go free and talk," said Pitt.

    "I hate to be the one to mention it," Ragsdale said quietly, "but they could already be dead."

    Pitt shook his head. "I won't let myself believe that."

    Sandecker rose and began working off his frustration by pacing the floor. "Even if the President approves a clandestine entry, our special response team has no intelligence to guide them to the location where Loren and Rudi are held captive."

    "I have an idea the Zolars are holding them on the mountain," said Giordino.

    Starger nodded in agreement. "You might be right. The hacienda they used as a headquarters to conduct the treasure search appears deserted."

    Ragsdale sighed. "If Smith and Gunn are still alive, I fear it won't be for long."

    "We can do nothing but look helplessly through the fence," said Starger in frustration.

    Ragsdale stared out the window across the border. "The FBI can't launch a raid onto Mexican soil."

    "Nor Customs," said Gaskill.

    Pitt looked at the federal agents for a moment. Then he addressed himself directly to Sandecker. "They can't, but NUMA can."

    They all looked at him, uncomprehending.

    "We can what?" asked Sandecker.

    "Go into Mexico and rescue Loren and Rudi without creating an international incident."

    "Sure you will." Gaskill laughed. "Getting across the border is no trick, but the Zolars have the Sonoran police and military on their side. Satellite photos show heavy security on top and around the base of Cerro el Capirote. You couldn't get within ten kilometers without getting shot."

    "I wasn't planning on driving or hiking to the mountain," said Pitt.

    Starger looked at him and grinned. "What can the National Underwater and Marine Agency do that Customs and the FBI can't? Swim over the desert?"

    "No, not over," said Pitt in a deadly earnest voice. "Under."

NIGHTMARE PASSAGE

October 31, 1998

Satan's Sink, Baja, Mexico

    In the parched foothills on the northern end of the Sierra el Mayor Mountains, almost 50 kilometers (31 miles) due south of Mexicali, there is a borehole, a naturally formed tunnel, in the side of a cliff. Carved millions of years ago by the turbulent action of an ancient sea, the corridor slopes downward to the bottom of a small cavern, sculpted from the volcanic rock by Pliocene epoch water and more recently by windblown sand. There on the floor of the cavern a pool of water emerges from beneath the desert. Except for a tint of cobalt blue, the water is so clear as to appear invisible and from ground level the sinkhole looks to be bottomless.

    Satan's Sink was shaped nothing like the sacrificial pool in Peru, Pitt thought, as he gazed at the yellow nylon line trailing into the transparent depths. He sat on a rock at the edge of the water, his eyes shaded with a look of concern, hands lightly grasping the nylon line whose end was wound around the drum of a compact reel.

    Outside, 80 meters (262 feet) above the bottom of the tubular borehole, Admiral Sandecker sat in a lawn chair beside a ravaged and rusting 1951 Chevy half-ton pickup truck with a faded camper in the bed that looked as though it should have been recycled years ago. Another automobile was parked behind it, a very tired and worn 1968 Plymouth Belvedere station wagon. Both had Baja California Norte license plates.

    Sandecker held a can of Coors beer in one hand as he lifted a pair of binoculars to his eyes with the other and scrutinized the surrounding landscape. He was dressed to complement the old truck, having the appearance of any one of thousands of retired American vagabonds who travel and camp around the Baja Peninsula on the cheap.

    He was surprised to find so many flowering plants in the Sonoran Desert, despite scant water and a climate that runs from subfreezing nights in the winter to a summer heat that produces furnace temperatures. Far off in the distance he watched a small herd of horses grazing on bunchgrass.

    Satisfied the only life within his immediate area was a red diamondback rattler sunning itself on a rock and a black tailed jackrabbit that hopped up to him, took one look, and leaped away, he rose from his lawn chair and ambled down the slope of the borehole to the pool.

    "Any sign of the law?" asked Pitt at the admiral's approach.

    Nothing around here but snakes and rabbits," grunted Sandecker. He nodded toward the water. "How long have they been down?"

    Pitt glanced at his watch. "Thirty-eight minutes."

    "I'd feel a whole lot better if they were using professional equipment instead of old dive gear borrowed from local Customs agents."

    "Every minute counts if we're to save Loren and Rudi. By doing an exploratory survey now to see if my plan has the slightest chance of succeeding, we save six hours. The same time it takes for our state-of-the-art equipment to arrive in Calexico from Washington."

    "Sheer madness to attempt such a dangerous operation," said Sandecker in a tired voice.

    "Do we have an alternative?"

    "None that comes to mind."

    "Then we must give it a try," said Pitt firmly.

    "You don't even know yet if you have the slightest prospect of--"

    "They've signaled," Pitt interrupted the admiral as the line tautened in his hands. "They're on their way up."

    Together, Pitt pulling in on the line, Sandecker holding the reel between his knees and turning the crank, they began hauling in the two divers who were somewhere deep inside the sinkhole on the other end of the 200-meter 460(656-foot) line. A long fifteen minutes later, breathing heavily, they brought in the red knot that signified the third fifty-meter mark.

    "Only fifty meters to go," Sandecker commented heavily. He pulled on the reel as he cranked, trying to ease the strain on Pitt who did the major share of the work. The admiral was a health enthusiast, jogged several miles a day, and occasionally worked out in the NUMA headquarters health spa, but the exertion of pulling dead weight without a time-out pushed his heart rate close to the red line. "I see them," he panted thankfully.