Clive Cussler - Lost Empire

She took a dozen pictures of the carving with her digital camera.

“Let’s check the bowsprit,” said Sam. “When it comes to boats, these kinds of things often come in pairs.”

They walked to the bow. As Sam had guessed, the bowsprit also bore a carving, this one in better condition than its counterpart. In fact, the bowsprit itself was the sculpture: a serpent, its mouth agape, feathered plumes streaming backward from its head.“Sam, do you know what this resembles?” Remi asked.

“No. Should I?”

“Probably not, I suppose. It’s less elaborate and stylized, but it’s the near spitting image of Quetzalcoatl, the Great Plumed Serpent God of the Aztecs.”

“CRAZY LIKE A FOX,” Sam muttered after a few seconds. “Pardon?”

“Blaylock. Crazy like a fox. Clearly, he hid the Moreau map and the codex together in his walking staff for good reason. He was obsessed with something all right, but it was about more than the Shenandoah or the El Majidi.”

“Maybe it started out with them,” Remi agreed, “but somewhere along the line he must have found something, or learned something, that changed his focus. The question is, how did whoever brought this canoe here get it in the cave?”“Unless there’s another entrance beyond croco-ville down there, they must have dismantled it, brought it in through the waterfall, then reassembled it.”

“That’s a lot of work. We’re two miles from the beach, and it weighs a couple thousand pounds.”

“Sailors tend to get attached to their vessel, especially if it’s seen them through rough seas and a long voyage. We might know more once we get these samples tested, but if we’re buying into Blaylock’s odyssey this could be an Aztec boat. Which would make it what? At least six hundred years old?”

“We’re talking about rewriting history, Sam. There are no accounts of the Aztecs traveling beyond Mexico’s coastal regions, let alone across the Pacific and around the Cape of Good Hope.”“We’re thinking at cross-purposes, my dear.”

“How so?”

“You’re thinking west to east and the sixteenth century. I’m thinking east to west and much earlier than that.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Remi, you said it yourself: Historians aren’t entirely sure where the Aztecs originated. What if we’re standing in front of a Proto-Aztec migration ship?”

MADAGASCAR, INDIAN OCEAN

REMI WAS ABOUT TO OPEN HER MOUTH TO REPLY WHEN THE crack of a gunshot echoed through the cave. To their left they heard something plunk into a stalagmite. They doused their headlamps and dropped to the ground. Perfectly still, barely breathing, they waited for more shots. None came. At the mouth of the right-hand tunnel the flare was sputtering, almost consumed. Red light flickered over the wall.“Do you see anything?” Remi whispered.

“I think it came from outside. Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Sam got to his feet. Hunched over, he dashed to a mineral column, stopped to look and listen, then moved on, zigzagging from cover to cover until he was pressed flat against the wall beside the entrance. He drew the Webley and ducked into the entrance.Crack!

A bullet struck the floor beside him and ricocheted off into the cavern. Hurrying now, he ran out into the grotto, then sidestepped left until he reached the spot where they’d entered. He fell to his belly and crawled between a pair of boulders until his head slipped beneath the cascade. Eyes squinted against the torrent, he peered ahead until the lagoon came into view.

Six men, all armed with assault rifles, stood on the beach. They were dressed in torn jeans, ratty T-shirts, and combat boots. To a man, each wore a white bandanna with red-dyed corners tied around his forearm. Two of them knelt beside Sam and Remi’s packs, sorting the contents into piles. Sam scanned the lagoon area and surrounding trees but saw no sign of the Kid.

One of the men-the leader, Sam assumed, based on his mannerisms and the semiautomatic pistol he wore on his belt-barked something to the others, then pointed toward the waterfall. The five subordinates began picking their way around the lagoon.Sam back-crawled, holstered the Webley, and hurried back into the cavern. He found Remi where he’d left her. He said, “Six men, all armed-the rebels the Kid mentioned.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, I think he got away.”

“Good.”

“They’re coming in to investigate. We’ve got a minute, maybe two.” “How many?”

“Five.”

“Bad odds for a gunfight. I’d suggest we go down the other tunnel and look for an exit, but I’m not in the mood to be devoured.”

Sam grinned. “I’m sure our visitors will share your sentiment. You look for a better hiding spot, and I’ll go stir up some trouble. Be back in a flash.”

Sam dashed across the cavern, hopped the creek, then started down the right-hand tunnel. After snatching the flare from the sand he dashed down the ramp to the water’s edge, stopped, and clicked on his headlamp. Twenty feet away he saw a jumble of scaly tails, clawed feet, and fanged snouts. He counted at least three crocodiles. They hissed and thrashed as the light panned over them.“Sorry about the intrusion,” Sam murmured.

He cocked his arm and heaved the sputtering flare down the tunnel. His aim was true. The flare landed on the nearest crocodile’s back, then bounced into their midst. The hissing and thrashing became frenzied. En masse, the crocodiles began scrabbling away from the flare and moving toward the ramp.

Sam doused his headlamp, turned, and ran. As he reached the creek he saw Remi’s headlamp flash once near the far wall. He ran that way and found her hunched between a crescent of boulders. Just as he skidded to a stop and dropped to his knees he heard the echo of voices at the cavern entrance.“Are the natives restless?” Remi whispered into Sam’s ear.

“More like enraged. If that flare stays lit, our visitors should head straight for it.”

“And into an ugly surprise.”

“Let’s just hope their surprise doesn’t turn on us.”

IT TOOK LESS THAN A MINUTE for their visitors to make their presence known. Having grown accustomed to the steady if muffled rush of the waterfall, Sam and Remi heard its pattern change as bodies moved through the cascade. This was followed by the sound of boots in the grotto, then whispered voices through the entrance and in the main cavern. The whispering stopped, followed by the barely perceptible scuffing of feet on stone.

Sam whispered in Remi’s ear, “One man. A scout.”

This was a watershed moment for their plan. If the scout decided to investigate the flare on his own, the crocodile reception would probably send him and his compatriots running. If, however, they came en masse, the reception and its resulting pandemonium could easily engulf Sam and Remi as well.

Sam and Remi sat still, listening. The sound of the footfalls went quiet. A single voice called out something. More silence. Then more footfalls, overlapping, moving through the entrance tunnel. Now the crunch of footfalls moving across the loose rock and sediment. The group was moving deeper into the cavern. With their eyes already well adjusted, Sam and Remi could plainly see the faint red flickering of the flare down the right-hand tunnel. How soon this group would see the light was the question.Sam and Remi turned their heads this way and that, trying to triangulate the location of the party. Remi whispered, “They’re near the far wall.”

The crunch of footfalls stopped. A single voice called something in what Sam assumed was Malagasy, and while the word made no sense the inflection was one of surprised announcement, as in, Sam imagined: Look, a flare!