Clive Cussler - The Kingdom

“I can’t see you anymore,” Remi called.

“Don’t worry. If I fall, I’ll be sure to give out an appropriately terrified scream.”

“I’ve never heard you scream in your life, Fargo.”

“And, cross fingers, you won’t this time.”

“How’re the walls?”

“More of the-Whoa!”

“What?”

No response.

“Sam!”

“I’m okay. Just lost my footing for a second. The walls are getting icy. Must be mist from the water below.”

“How bad?”

“Just a thin coating on the walls. Can’t trust any of the stalagmites, though.”

“Come back up. We’ll figure out another way.”

“I’m continuing on. I’ve got another thirty feet of rope to play with.”

Two minutes passed. Sam’s headlamp was a mere pinpoint now, jostling back and forth in the pit’s darkness as he maneuvered around the stalagmites.

Suddenly, there came the sound of shattering ice. Sam’s headlamp began spinning, winking up at Remi like a strobe light. Before she could open her mouth to call to him, Sam shouted, “I’m okay. Upside down but okay.”

“More description, if you please!”

“Got turned around in my harness and flipped. Good news, though: I’m staring at the water. It’s about ten feet below my head.”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“The current’s fast-three knots at least-and it looks deep. Waist-high, probably.”

Though three knots was slower than a fast walking pace, the depth and temperature of the water multiplied the hazard. Not only would it take only one minor misstep to be swept away but the exertion it would take to stay upright would speed up the hypothermia process.

“Come back up,” Remi said. “No arguments.”

“Agreed. Give me a second to . . . Hold on.”

From the darkness came more cracking of ice, followed by splashes.

“Talk to me, Fargo.”

“Give me a second.”

Another thirty seconds of cracking, then Sam’s voice: “Side tunnel!”

After ten minutes of detailed work, Sam shouted, “It’s good-sized. Almost tall enough to stand in. I’m going in. Give me a minute to set up a belay.” If Remi went into the subterranean river, this measure would give Sam a fighting chance to reel her back in-provided there weren’t rocks downriver ready to bash Remi into pulp.

Once this was done and Sam was braced and ready to take slack, Remi started her descent. Lighter and a bit more agile than her husband, she covered the distance in less time, pausing only to allow Sam time to take up slack through the piton’s belay point.

At last she descended into view and stopped even with the side tunnel’s entrance. Headlamps shining into one another’s faces, they shared a relieved smile.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Sam said.

“Damn!”

“What?”

“I had a mental bet you were going to go with ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a nearly bottomless pit like this?’”

Sam laughed. “Okay, you’re going to have to go Superman in your rig and push off the opposite wall. I’ll catch you.”

Remi took a few moments to catch her breath and then made the appropriate adjustments to her harness until she was hanging perpendicular in the pit. Flexing her body, she slowly built up a swing until she could toe-push off the opposite wall. Three more of these allowed her to fully coil her legs and push off. Arms extended, she swung forward, hands grasping. The side wall rushed toward her face. She ducked her head. Her arms slipped into the tunnel. Sam’s hands clamped on hers, and she jolted to a stop.

“Got you!” Sam said. “Wrap both hands around my left wrist.”

She did, and Sam used his right arm to slowly release some slack in the rope so Remi could climb up his arm. Once her torso was inside the tunnel, Sam began back-crawling until her knees were also inside. He fell back and let out a relieved sigh.

Remi started laughing. Sam raised his head and looked at her.

“What?”

“You take me to the nicest places.”

“After this, a nice hot bubble bath-for two.”

“You’re singing my song.”

Though twice as wide as their shoulders and tall enough to allow them to walk stooped over, the tunnel’s floor was Swiss cheese-so riddled with potholes that they could glimpse the river’s roiling black surface rushing beneath their feet. Plumes of cold air and ice crystals shot up through the gaps, creating a fog that glittered and swirled in their headlamps. Like the pit behind them, the tunnel’s walls and ceiling were coated in a membrane of ice. As they walked, pencil-thin icicles broke from the ceiling and shattered on the floor like sporadic wind chimes. Though mostly clear of ice, the heavily rutted floor forced them to brace themselves as they walked, adding to the exertion.

“Not to be a wet blanket,” Remi said, “but we’re assuming this leads somewhere.”

“We are indeed,” Sam replied over his shoulder.

“And if we’re wrong?”

“Then we turn back, scale the opposite side of the pit, and leave the way we came in.”

The tunnel twisted and turned, rose and fell, but, according to Sam’s compass bearings, it maintained a rough easterly bearing. They took turns counting steps, but without a GPS unit to measure their overall progress, and only Sam’s sketched map to go by, they had no idea how much distance they were actually covering.

After what Sam guessed was a hundred yards, he called another halt and found a relatively solid section of tunnel and plopped to the ground. After sharing a few sips of water and a quarter of their remaining jerky and dried fruit, they sat in silence, listening to the rush of the water beneath their feet.

“What time is it?” Remi asked.

Sam checked his watch. “Nine o’clock.”

While they had told Selma where they were heading, they’d also asked her not to press the panic button until the following morning local time. Even then, how long would it take the authorities to arrange a rescue party and mount a search? Their only saving grace was that this tunnel had not branched; if they chose to turn back, they’d have no trouble finding the pit again. But at what point did they make that decision? Was an exit around the next bend, or miles away, or nonexistent?

Neither Sam nor Remi spoke of any of this. They didn’t need to. Their years together, and the adventures they’d shared, had put them on the same wavelength. Facial expressions were usually enough to convey what each was thinking.

“I’m still holding you to that hot bubble bath promise,” Remi said.

“Forgot to tell you: I’ve added a relaxing massage to the pot.”

“My hero. Shall we?”

Sam nodded. “Let’s give it another hour. If a red carpet exit doesn’t materialize, we’ll turn back, have a rest, then tackle the pit.”

“Deal.”

Accustomed to hardship, of both the mental and the physical variety, Sam and Remi fell into a rhythm: walk for twenty minutes, pause for two minutes to rest, take a compass bearing and update the map, then onward again. The remaining time of their journey passed quickly. Left foot, right foot, repeat. To conserve light, Remi had long ago turned off her headlamp, and Sam had set his to its lowest setting, so they found themselves moving in the faintest of twilights. The cold air gushing through the floor seemed colder, their footing harder to maintain, the tinkle of falling icicles jarring to their numbed brains.

Suddenly Sam stopped. Her reactions at half speed, Remi bumped into him. Sam whispered. “Do you feel that?”

“What?”

“Cold air.”

“Sam, it’s-”

“No, in our faces. Ahead. Will you dig the lighter out of my pack?”

Remi did so and handed it to him. Sam took a few steps forward, looking for a solid section of floor between plumes. He found a suitable spot, stopped, and clicked on the lighter. Remi squeezed herself in next to Sam and peered around his arm. Flickering yellow light danced off the icy walls. The flame wavered, then steadied and stood straight up.