James Rollins - Excavation

Norman continued stuffing his gear. “Do you really think we’ll find some tomb overflowing with riches?”

Sam smiled. “And discover the Tutankhmen of the New World? No, I don’t think so. It’s the dream of gold that draws the thieves, but not my uncle. Knowledge is what lured him here – and the truth.”

“But what is he is so doggedly searching for? I know he seeks some proof that another tribe existed before the Incas, but why this stubborn need for secrecy. I need to report to the Geographic at some point to update them before the next deadline.”

Sam bunched his brows. He had no answer for Norman. The same questions had been echoing in his own mind. Uncle Hank was keeping some snippet of information close to his chest. But this was always like the professor. He was open in all other ways, but when it came to professional matters, he could be extremely tight-lipped.

“I don’t know,” Sam finally said. “But I trust the professor. If he has his nose into something, we’ll just have to wait him out.”

A shout suddenly arose from the excavated hole on the neighboring terrace: “Sam! Come look!”

Ralph Isaacson’s helmeted head popped from the shaft, excitement bright in his eyes. The large African-American, a fellow grad student, hailed from the University of Alabama. Financed on a football scholarship, he had excelled in his undergraduate years and managed to garner an academic scholarship to complete his masters in archaeology. He was as sharp as he was muscular. “You have to see this!” The carbide lamp of Ralph’s mining helmet flashed toward them. “We’ve reached a sealed door with writing on it!”

“Is the door intact?” Sam called back, getting to his feet excitedly.

“Yes! And Maggie says there’s no evidence of tampering.”

This could be the breakthrough all of them had been searching for these past months. An intact tomb or royal chamber within the ancient ruins. Sam helped Norman, burdened by his sling of cameras, up the steep steps toward the highest terrace of the Sun Plaza.

“Do you think -?” Norman huffed.

Sam held up a hand. “It may just be a basement level to one of the Incan temples. Let’s not get our hopes up.”

By the time they had reached the excavated terrace, Norman was wheezing. Ralph frowned in disdain at the photographer’s exertion. “Havin’ trouble there, Norman? I could ask Maggie to help carry you.”

The photographer rolled his eyes and refrained from commenting, too winded to speak.

Sam joined them atop the plaza. He was breathing hard, too. Any exertion at this high altitude taxed lungs and heart. “Leave him alone, Ralph,” he scolded. “Show us what you found.”

Ralph shook his head and led the way with his helmet lamp. The black man’s wide frame filled the three-foot-wide shaft as he mounted the ladder. Unlike Sam, Ralph did not get along with Norman. Ever since the photographer had let his sexual orientation be known, a certain friction had grown between the two. Raised in the Bible Belt, Ralph seemed unable to let go of certain prejudices that had nothing to do with color. But Henry had insisted they all work together. Be a team. So the two had developed a grumbling cooperation.

“Jackass,” Norman mumbled under his breath, shifting his camera load.

Sam clapped the photographer on the shoulder and glanced into the excavated hole. The rungs of the ladder descended thirty feet to the warren of chambers and hallways below. “Don’t let him get to you,” Sam said. He waved toward the ladder. “Go on. I’ll follow.”

As they descended, Ralph spoke, his words growing in excitement again. “We just got the carbon-dating back on the deepest level this morning. Did you hear, Sam? A.D. 1100. Predating the damn Incas by two damn centuries.”

“I heard,” Sam said. “But the margin of error on dating still leaves this result questionable.”

“Maybe… but wait ’til you see the etchings!”

“Are they Incan imagery?” Sam called down.

“It’s too soon to say. When we uncovered the door, I rushed up to fetch you two. Maggie is still down there trying to clean up the door. I figured we should all be present.”

Sam continued to climb down. Lamplight bloomed from below, casting his shadow up the wall of the shaft. He could imagine Maggie bent with her nose an inch from the door, meticulous with brush and tweezers as she freed the history of these people from centuries of mud and clay. He could also picture her auburn hair pulled back in a long ponytail as she worked, the way her nose crinkled when deep in concentration, the small noises of pleasure she made when she discovered something new. If only he could attract a tenth of the attention the stones of the ruins earned from her.

Sam stumbled on a rung of the ladder and had to catch himself with a quick grab.

After three more steps, his feet touched rock. He stepped from the ladder into the cramped cavern of the first level. The sodium lamps stung his eyes with their brightness while the heavy odor of turned soil and moist clay filled his nostrils. This was not a dusty, dry tomb of Egypt. The continual mist and frequent jungle storms of the high Andes saturated the soil. Rather than sand, the archaeologists battled moldy roots and wet clay to release the trapped secrets of the underground structure. Around Sam, the handiwork of ancient engineers glowed in the light, bricks and stones so skillfully fitted together that not even a knife blade could slide between them. But even such design could not fully withstand the ravages of time. Many areas of the subterranean structure had been weakened by winding roots and centuries of accumulated clay and soil.

Around Sam, the ruins groaned. It was a frequent noise, stressed stones settling after the team had cleared the clay and dirt from the rooms and halls, hollowing them out. The local Quechan workers had installed a latticework of wooden support beams, bolstering the ancient, root-damaged bulwarks and ceilings. But still the underground structure moaned with the weight of earth piled atop it.

“This way,” Ralph said, guiding them toward the wooden ladder that descended to the second level of tunnels and rooms. However, that was not their final destination. After climbing down two more ladders, they reached the deepest level, almost fifty feet underground. This section had not been fully cleared or cataloged. Among the honeycomb of narrow excavated tunnels and rooms bolstered by wooden frames, shirtless workers hauled sacks of mud and debris. Normally, the tunnels echoed with the workers’ native songs, but now the halls were quiet. Even the workers suspected the importance of this discovery.

Silence hung like a wool blanket across the ruins. The garrulous Ralph had finally halted his discourse on the discovery of the sealed chamber. The three proceeded in silence through the last of the tunnels to the deepest room. Once in the wider chamber, the trio, who had been squeezing through the passage single file, spread out. Sam could finally see more than just the bowed back of Norman Fields.

The chamber was no larger than a cramped single-car garage. Yet, in this small room buried fifty feet underground, Sam sensed that history was about to be revealed. The chamber’s far side was a wall of quarried stone, again so artfully constructed that the granite pieces fit together like an intricate jigsaw puzzle. Though still covered in many places with layers of clay and mud, the workmanship had obviously withstood the ages and the elements. Yet as amazing as the architecture was, what stood in the center of the wall drew all their eyes: a crude stone arch blocked by a carefully fitted slab of rock. Three horizontal bands of a dull metal, each a handspan wide, crossed the doorway and were bolted to both door and frame.