The 5th Amulet

by SJ Hailey

  Jones decided to leave, instructed Smith to leave him to dry off in the hot midday sun. Before he left Smith kicked him in the crotch and then left, wiped his hands with a towel and discarded it by the door. The guard with the MP3 player left the room, laughing at Archer’s predicament.

  Archer was bleeding, breathless and alone, his mind wandering. He turned his head slowly attempting to see the damage to his body, the sensation increasing his nausea. He could not see all the injuries his body, too restrained to flex much, he could feel some, but the overwhelming pain from his frame was not specific to any area. He noticed a spike on the floor, some kind of tool sticking out from under the tractor tire. His attempts to reach it failed, he decided a different approach.

  The guards were watching TV, Jones had told them to ensure that their guest was left alone, without water for the afternoon; the African heat might change his mind. Smith and Jones retired to an air-conditioned trailer parked some distance from the main building, unaware of Archer’s actions.

  With all his strength Archer bounced the tractor tyre, the increasing momentum causing it to wobble and buck, like a wild steel and rubber animal. Then without warning he achieved his goal and the tyre came down on the spike, he had actually hit it three times, before the smell of escaping foul air reached him. He stopped his gyrations and let the tyre rapidly deflate.

  Within seconds his bounds had loosened and he was free. He moved deftly to his kit, still unattended on the ground, a rapid assessment, weapons but no communications. He had to get out of here and let Uncotto know of Enzi’s actions. He peered through the gap in the wooden wall, squinted as the midday glare hit his unaccustomed eyes. Across from the barn was a garrison hut, some guards visible through the window, one was patrolling outside the MP3 player still attached to his ears, he was nodding to the rhythm.

  He went to the other side of the barn and about quarter mile away he could see a cliff edge and the ocean. That was his escape.

  Archer was about to leave when a guard came in, his rifle slung, casual and unaware. He looked over at the tractor tire, realised their captive was not attached to it and quickly brought his gun to bear.

  Too slow.

  Before he could find his target, a weighted knife was embedded in his larynx, any scream trapped by the blade.

  Archer moved him away from the door, kicking sand over any blood running onto the ground. The guard was not quite dead, just staring at Archer in disbelief at his predicament. Archer calmly removed the knife, and positioned the guard on a chair, his back to the door. He would appear asleep to any casual observer.

  He checked no one was following the intruder. Reassured there was not, he bound his wounds with a ripped t-shirt, ensuring he did not leave a blood trail for his captors.

  Carefully pushing out old wooden boards, he proceeded out of the rear of the building. He moved leaving the barn to his back, obscuring his movement towards the cliff. He kept low, handgun drawn, stepping sideways to ensure he could cover his back. Within a few minutes he was at the edge.

  The cliff was not as severe as expected, more of a rough rocky slope. Intermittent patches of sand where the cliff had succumb to erosion. White rock carved by the wind, like fossilised branches of an extinct tree. A cluster of fishing boats at the base, just clear of the pounding surf, some modern plastic moulded others traditional wooden, larger better cargo space, iceboxes in the centre.

  On the right was a circular red hut, a makeshift door at the back, he approached it, seeing no one else in the vicinity, a young boy came out of the hut, saw him, and darted back inside. Archer moved rapidly, pulling open the door and levelling his gun at any occupants, but the greeting he received was unexpected.

  ‘Do you have the time? I lost my watch in the surf, need to catch the tide.’

  An old man was hidden in the cool shadows of the hut, his face lined, creased with years of experience, sea salt and sun. He was calm, sitting holding a gnarled wooden stick between his hands, his cotton trousers neat and a t-shirt with Homer Simpson eating a donut.

  ‘It’s just after 16:00. Where am I?’

  ‘Well young man, firstly you have nothing to fear here, if you were an occupant of the farm nearby. I suggest you lower your weapon and we move into my boat.’

  Archer did not trust that easily, ‘and why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Because your captors know this area better than you, and I can tell you this is the first place they come, they always do.’

  ‘Where’s your boat, is it fast?’

  ‘Hardly, it’s diesel, and is older than my grandson here, but it will get us out into deeper water.’

  ‘How can I trust you?’

  The old man lifted his t-shirt, scar tissue from old deep cuts lined his ribs, and when he turned lash marks on his back.

  ‘I have been in the farm, that barn of death, I did not leave as soon as you, and this is my price.’

  Reassured that this man would not turn him in, Archer lowered his weapon, the old man gestured to his grandson, who began to make preparations for sea.

  ‘So my friend, you have upset Chui Enzi?’

  ‘You could say that; let’s just say he disagrees with my work ethic.’

  The old man smiled, ‘I am sure he disagrees with all work ethics but his own. Water?’

  Archer happily drank the bottle offered, taking a sip, but then with a nod from the old fisherman he finished it.

  ‘I can get you to a cargo ship out in the bay, there are relief ships on their way to Dar Es Saleem about 500 miles south in Tanzania.’

  ‘How can you do this, or know this?’

  ‘Oh I work for Mr Jones, he has a side-line in piracy, I tell him where the good cargo ships are, and he takes his own relief supplies.’

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty for that?’

  ‘Well it keeps me alive having a purpose, and I only tell him about the ones that are heavily armed, he does not bother to check if I am incorrect.’

  ‘Nice, so what will this trip cost me?’

  ‘Well that is a quandary isn’t it? What value a young American life?’

  ‘You would be surprised, less than you expect, depending who you ask.’

  ‘You are asking me, and I need a watch, lost mine this morning, yours looks sturdy.’

  Archer did like his MWC diver’s watch; however he could get another, ‘Deal. Here, try it on.’

  The old man placed it on his bony wrist, almost half the size of Archers, adjusting the strap with dexterity.

  ‘Very nice, comfy, thank you. Let us see if my grandson is ready to leave.’

  Archer and the old man left the grandson had begun to move the fishing boat across the twenty feet of sand to the breakers. The beach had a steep drop off, after thirty feet of rough waves, the sea calmed down. The grandson was attempting to cut through a knot on the securing rope, but his knife was rusty and blunt, Archer walked over, the teenager still wary, his wiry frame tensing up. Archer drew his k-bar and passed it to the tanned youth; with an encouraging look from his grandfather he accepted it.

  ‘Will that be sufficient for my journey?’

  ‘Yes, now you just need to survive it.’

  Looking at the boat Archer did not disagree, a zodiac would be much preferable right now, but as a former Ranger he was used to forced adaptation.

  The three travellers pushed the old boat into the surf, its yellow painted boards groaned against the water. The hull complained as it suffered the second pounding of the day. The young teenager rowed with a strength and rhythm that belied his slim build, and they cleared the rough surf and inshore rocks swiftly. The grandfather started the stubborn diesel engine and rested himself at the tiller.

  The engine puttered comfortably, coughed on occasion from neglect, it carried them straight out to sea.

  ‘How far to this ship?’

  ‘About twenty miles straight, the current will carry us to her from here; she has engine trouble so making repairs.’

  ‘G
reat so I am leaving one wreck for another?’

  ‘Something like that, by wreck do you mean me, or my boat?’

  They both laughed, the old man had a pleasant manner, and was very fluent in English.

  ‘Where did you learn to speak English so well?’

  ‘I used to teach it in Mogadishu to the parents of diplomats, but that was another life. Now I just teach my grandson here, in the hope that he will escape this place.’

  ‘Do you want to escape?’

  ‘My chances of that are slim, too old to change now.’

  Archer and the old man looked out towards the deep blue of the Indian Ocean, one escaping, one resigned to never doing so.

  Jones returned to the hut as evening drew in, the sun casting the last heat onto the dry sand. With anticipation he looked for Archer in the barn, but only discovered the corpse of his guard, the flies already enjoying a meal.

  In a rage Jones called his men, he asked who else had checked on their prisoner, unhappy with the response he shot one of the men in the head and dismissed the rest to search the area.

  Archer had already boarded the ship, the Santa Real a Spanish cargo ship supplying food aid for Tanzania, well South of Mabalia. She had been stopped for almost a day, the Captain nervous, having been attacked by pirates further up the coast before. Archer had negotiated passage, his American accent actually calming someone for a change.

  In exchange for servicing their weapons, and training their men in how to repel pirates more effectively, he would get a cabin and meals during their journey. With favourable weather Archer would be south in Dar Es Saleem in Tanzania within a day and a half. The American Embassy was there on Bagamovo Road, he could get paperwork to get him back to the States, and meet President Uncotto at the summit in New York in three days.

  NINE

  Ecuador.

  The airstrip was on the coast, the fresh sea breeze eased the humidity. Katherine and Debra dressed in fatigues and t-shirts, with baseball caps protecting their heads. The ladies sat down in the shade for a well-deserved drink. One of the research team was nearby, working with Debra on fitting new sensor equipment. Katherine knew that Debra liked him, teasing her for the past week. Juan Garcia Moreno walked over, his solid tanned frame striding over the thin grass. He smiled at the pair, Debra hiding any hint of emotion at his approach, her heart racing inside her chest.

  ‘Juan, nice of you to join us, all the sensors sorted?’

  Debra was attempting to sound business like, but didn’t fool Katherine.

  ‘Yes thank you Debra, we can use the new sensors to scan any cavities within the stone circle wall, narrow our search and detect any other hidden structures.’

  ‘Really? Fascinating.’

  Katherine stood up, eyeing Debra as she did so, ’Juan why don’t you run through the diagnostics with Debra, just to familiarise yourself, I have to return to camp.’

  Debra glared at Katherine, out of Juan’s eye line, Katherine nodding her head towards him.

  Juan began to walk towards the plane, very aware of Katherine’s actions, and smiled to himself as Debra’s boots echoed just behind him.

  ‘You have a good friend there Debra, you know that?’

  ‘Oh yes, she can be real buddy!’

  Debra tidied her long black hair, rapidly plaiting it and tucking the strands she missed under her hat, when they stopped to inspect the aircraft, Juan noticed.

  Katherine laughed quietly as she moved towards the waiting boat, one of the many locals would return her up the Cayapas River to the main excavation; see what progress they had made.

  The boat ride was pleasant, apart from the insects, but it was the rainforest. The debris left from the tsunami forcing its way up the river estuary from La Tola was still evident. Trees, beach sand, and flotsam deposited for miles inland. The local team with them had cleared any trees that blocked the river, enabling them to transfer all their equipment from the Arcadia support ship to the site, thirty miles inland. She had never seen so many shades of green until she came here, the variety of leaf shapes, masses of vegetation all intermingled to produce a vast undulating green blanket. From the air she felt privileged to see how far this spread, uninterrupted by any form of major civilisation.

  The local people had large towns up near the mountains and ancient volcanoes, the fertile land establishing crops centuries ago. The area she was travelling to was unpopulated, except for the motley group of insane foreigners currently camped out in the jungle. The locals stated that the mud, humidity and insects were too much for them to tolerate, and they returned to their comfortable beach homes in the evening. Leaving the archaeology team to be eaten by the local wildlife.

  Her driver Sucré was very quiet, polite but quiet, during the hour journey he barely uttered a word, the occasional ‘sostenga firmemente’ for rough water, but nothing more, so she enjoyed the peace and quiet of the trip.

  They rounded the last familiar bend, and the site came into view, the stilted structures erected by the Arcadia team rising ten feet above them. They had decided that with the river height being unpredictable, having any habitable structure at ground level had two disadvantages. The local wildlife would probably move in, and any change in water level would flood and damage anything they excavated. Therefore, the chief of the Arcadia had suggested using the damaged and downed trees to provide sturdy legs, sinking them a few metres into the dense rainforest floor. The deck above had walkways, canvas and tin roofs protecting them from the frequent rainfall, they had latrines, composting toilets with a unique odour, water collection and purification equipment, powered by generators and solar panels. They had to bring in supplies of food, and the Arcadia’s helicopter provided weekly food drops for the camp.

  Katherine thanked Sucré and climbed the ladder to the first deck, the reception deck they called it. It was little more than an equipment dumping ground, a meeting point for the walkways. Evelyn was at the top of the ladder greeting her with a hug, and informing her of their finds, ‘Where is Christophe?’

  ‘He is up river at your stone circle, with Marianne.’

  Katherine did not respond, and Evelyn knew the contempt felt for Marianne by the camp.

  ‘We have some finds from the ship, wanna see?’

  ‘Yeah sure, can I just get some water?’

  ‘I have some in the lab, and it is much cooler.’

  They strode to the makeshift lab, the walkway undulating and flexing as they moved, and glimpse of the forest floor below through the planks. The lab was a combination of tin roof, acrylic sheets and timber, letting light in, keeping the bugs out. It had been assembled on site; an air-conditioning system rigged up to cool and purify the jungle air, and protect the valuable finds uncovered in the past few months. There was an airlock of sorts, positive airflow keeping the pressure inside higher than outside, so when you walked in air was forced out, no uninvited bugs here.

  As Katherine entered something caught her eye, a necklace, blue in colour with a silver surround, corroded, but clearly identifiable, ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘What the necklace? It was on the body of a man from the ship, surprising most of the remains were intact. The silt buried them, alive we suspect, but they are amazingly preserved.’

  ‘So that was around his neck? How old is he?’

  ‘Well Katherine, that’s the quandary, Christophe says that this is a Spanish ship from the conquest, so they should be from around 1550 to 1600, but when we checked the ships timber and their bones, it is showing mid 1400’s?’

  ‘And what does Christophe say about that?’

  ‘Well of course the multi-million dollar equipment is wrong, so he sent samples back to the Institute for tests.’

  ‘What do you think Evelyn?’

  ‘Well not just me, the group think that this is a Treasure ship, or part of one of the fleets. You see the hull is Chinese teak, not Oak like many European ships, and the stern is not curved like a western ship.’

  ‘What i
s a treasure ship Evelyn? Just presume for a moment that I am a pilot, and not an archaeologist or historian.’

  ‘Sorry Katherine old habit. According to some academics, Columbus was not the first person to discover America; he was beaten by at least seventy years by the Chinese. Of course this is being disputed, but the evidence continues to gather pace.’

  ‘What? A Chinese fleet, when?’

  ‘The records indicate between 1418 and 1430 many ships from China navigated and mapped most of the world, Columbus allegedly had a map that was a Portuguese copy of a Chinese version.’

  ‘Unbelievable and this is documented?’

  ‘Yes and no, the politics in China changed after the death of the Emperor Zhu Di, who commissioned the Treasure fleets, so all records and the ships themselves were destroyed, by the Mandarins’

  ‘So there is no historical record of these voyages.’

  ‘Well records exist, but many were destroyed, it is possible some documents were smuggled out of the country, or hidden.’

  ‘And you think this is one of the ships?’

  ‘Yep, over nine hundred ships sailed out, in seven huge fleets, many were lost, and we think this is one of them.’

  ‘And the necklace? Is that Chinese?’

  ‘No that is weird. The man it was with is not Chinese, probably a local, our forensic anthropologists have analysed his remains. The bone growth, skull shape and condition of his joints indicate he was possibly Inca?’

  ‘So how does a local end up on a Chinese junk? Slave?’

  ‘The fleets were not sent to conquer or enslave, but to trade and learn, so the local people and Chinese sailors lived together for weeks at a time. They would also set up trade links and revisit on future voyages, establishing good relationships and embracing the new cultures rather than dominating them.’