Clive Cussler - Inca Gold

Instead of the standard backpack, Pitt attached his air tanks to a harness around his hips for easier access through narrow passages. He was also festooned with breathing regulators, air lines leading to dual valve manifolds, pressure gauges, and a small backup bottle filled with pure oxygen for decompression. Then came weight belts and buoyancy compensators.

"No mixed gas?" queried Sandecker.

"We'll breathe air," Pitt replied as he checked his regulators.

"What about the danger of nitrogen narcosis?"

"Once we're clear of the bottom of the sinkhole and the lower part of the feeder stream before it upslopes to the river, we'll avoid any further deep diving like the plague."

"Just see that you stay well above the threshold," Sandecker warned him, "and don't go below thirty meters. And once you're afloat keep a sharp eye for submerged boulders."

Those were the words the admiral spoke. What he didn't say was, "If something goes wrong and you need immediate help, you might as well be on the third ring of Saturn." In other words, there could be no rescue or evacuation.

Pitt and Giordino made a final predive check of each other's equipment by the side of the pool and tested their ` quick-release buckles and snaps to ensure their smooth removal in an emergency. Instead of divers' hoods, they strapped construction workers' hardhats to their heads with dual-sealed miners' lamps on the front. Then they poised on the edge of the sinkhole and slipped into the water.

Sandecker and Duncan hoisted a long, pressure-sealed aluminum canister and struggled to lower one end into the sinkhole. The canister, measuring one meter in width by four in length, was articulated in the middle for easier maneuvering through tight spaces. Heavy and cumbersome on land from the lead ballast required to give it neutral buoyancy, it was easily moved by a diver underwater.

Giordino bit on his mouthpiece, adjusted his mask, and took hold of a handgrip on the forward end of the canister. He threw a final wave as he and the canister slowly sank together below the water surface. Pitt looked up from the water and shook hands with Duncan.

"Whatever you do," Duncan warned him, "mind you don't let the current sweep you past the treasure chamber. From that position to where the river emerges into the Gulf has to be over a hundred kilometers."

"Don't worry, we won't spend any more time down there than we have to."

"May God dive with you," said Duncan.

"All heavenly company will be warmly welcomed," said Pitt sincerely. Then he gripped Sandecker's hand. "Keep a tequila on ice for me, Admiral."

"I wish there was another way into the mountain."

Pitt shook his head. "It can only be done with a diveraft operation."

"Bring Loren and Rudi back," replied Sandecker, fighting off a surge of emotion.

"You'll see them soon," Pitt promised.

And then he was gone.

The voice of his radio operator roused Captain Juan Diego from his reverie, and he turned from gazing out his command tent at the cone-shaped mountain. There was an indescribable ugliness about Cerro el Capirote and the bleak desert that surrounded it, he thought. This was a wasteland compared to the beauty of his native state of Durango.

"Yes, what is it, Sergeant?"

The radio operator had his back to him and Diego couldn't see the puzzled look on the soldier's face. "I called the security posts for their hourly status reports and received no response from Posts Four and Six."

Diego sighed. He didn't need unexpected predicaments. Colonel Campos had commanded him to set up a security perimeter around the mountain and he had followed orders. No reason was given, none was asked. Consumed with curiosity, Diego could only watch the helicopters arrive and depart and wonder what was going on up there.

"Contact Corporal Francisco at Post Five and have him send a man to check Four and Six." Diego sat down at his field desk and duly noted the lack of response in his daily report as a probable breakdown in communications equipment. The possibility there was a real problem never entered his mind.

"I can't raise Francisco at Post Five either," the radioman informed him.

Diego finally turned. "Are you certain your equipment is working properly?"

"Yes, Sir. The transmitter is sending and receiving perfectly."

"Try Post One."

The radioman adjusted his headphones and signaled the post. A few moments later, he turned and shrugged.

"I'm sorry, Captain, Post One is silent too."

"I'll see to this myself," Diego said irritably. He picked up a portable radio and headed from the tent toward his command vehicle. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks and stared dumbly.

The army command vehicle was sitting with the left front end jacked up, the wheel and the spare tire both nowhere to be seen. "What in hell is going on?" he muttered to himself. Is this some sort of prank, he wondered, or could Colonel Campos be testing him?

He spun around on his heel and started for the tent but took only two steps. As if conjured up out of nothingness by a spell, three men blocked his way. All held rifles pointed at his chest. The first question that ran through his mind was why were Indians, dressed as if they were on a cattle drive, sabotaging his equipment?

"This is a military zone," he blurted. "You are not permitted here."

"Do as you're told, soldier boy," said Billy Yuma, "and none of your men will get hurt."

Diego suddenly guessed what had happened to his security posts. And yet he was confused. There was no way a few Indians could capture forty trained soldiers without firing a shot. He addressed his words to Yuma, whom he took to be the leader.

"Drop your weapons before my men arrive or you will be placed under military arrest."

"I'm sorry to inform you, soldier boy," Yuma said, taking delight in intimidating the officer in his neatly pressed field uniform and brightly shined combat boots, "but your entire force has been disarmed and is now under guard."

"Impossible!" snapped Diego haughtily. "No mob of sand rats can stand up against trained troops."

Yuma shrugged indifferently and turned to one of the men beside him. "Fix the radio inside the tent so it won't work."

"You're crazy. You can't destroy government property."

"You have trespassed on our land," said Yuma in a low voice. "You have no authority here."

"I order you to put those guns down," commanded Diego, reaching for his sidearm.

Yuma stepped forward, his weathered face expressionless, and rammed the muzzle of his old Winchester rifle deep into Captain Diego's stomach. "Do not resist us. If I pull the trigger, your body will silence the gunfire to those on the mountain."

The sudden, jolting pain convinced Diego these men were not playing games. They knew the desert and could move through the terrain like ghosts. His orders were to prevent possible encroachment by wandering hunters or prospectors. Nothing was mentioned about an armed force of local Indians who lay in ambush. Slowly, he handed over his automatic pistol to one of Yuma's men, who stuffed the barrel down the waist of his denim pants.

"Your radio too, please."

Diego reluctantly passed over the radio. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Don't you know you are breaking the law?"

"If you soldier boys are working with the men who are defiling our sacred mountain, it is you who are breaking the law, our law. Now, no more talk. You will come with us."

In silence, Captain Diego and his radioman were escorted half a kilometer (a third of a mile) to a large overhanging rock protruding from the mountain. There, out of sight of anyone on the peak, Diego found his entire company of men sitting nervously in a tight group while several Indians covered them with their own weapons.

They scrambled to their feet and came to attention, their faces reflecting relief at seeing their commanding officer. Two lieutenants and a sergeant came up and saluted.