Aztec Odyssey

by Jay C. LaBarge

  Atsa and Yas checked the bodies laying about the cavern, making sure no one would play hero, and walked over to where Nick stood. He was looking down at Eztli, who was holding his abdomen. Charlie pulled himself up for a better view, as Soba stanched the bleeding of his shoulder. Bidzii stood over Tahoma, tears welling in his eyes. He then made his way over next to Nick, and nodded no, Tahoma hadn’t survived. Nick’s jaw clenched, a pistol in his hand pointed at Eztli’s head.

  “Don’t do it, Nick,” Charlie said. He’s the head of the snake. Let’s give him to the authorities and let them stamp out the whole damn cartel.”

  Eztli defiantly glared at Nick, uncowering. “Good advice, listen to your brother. This is bigger than simple revenge, I am much too valuable to silence forever.”

  Nick pondered the ramifications, and what would ultimately be the greater good. The death of one versus the unraveling of an entire drug empire, he could literally save thousands of lives, prevent who knew how many people from becoming addicts, spare untold destroyed families and anguish. It was over, he had done his part, and slowly lowered his arm down.

  Eztli saw the change in demeanor and grinned, there might be a way out of this yet for him. Payoffs in the right places and he would be extradited back to Mexico, where he knew people in key places, people who would look out for his best interests, for their nation’s best interests. A delay in his plans, yes, but it need not thwart his ultimate long-term ambitions. He had perfect calm and clarity, the bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs, and if he had survived the mean streets of Ciudad Victoria as an abandoned orphan, he would survive this as well. Survive, then thrive, and finally rise again, like the remnants of the Aztec Empire now all around him.

  Sounds started coming toward them from the tunnel, faint at first, then increasingly louder, footsteps and commotion, and everyone trained their guns on the entrance. Suddenly Javier emerged, stumbling and holding the tied off pulp of a bloody arm, followed by Ahaiyuta and the other warriors from outside the cave.

  “We bring you this one as a gift. We found him trembling in a side passage,” Ahaiyuta said. “The white wolf was locked onto his arm, dead.”

  Nick felt a jolt at the news, and looked at Soba, her tear-filled eyes meeting his. First Tahoma, now this. And who knew what had happened to Killian. Shaking it off and concentrating on the matter at hand, he stared at Javier. What was it about him he knew? He then remembered the dossier Charlie had reviewed with him about the cartel, that Javier was the number two man, the finance and logistics wizard, the brains behind the operation. He looked back at Eztli, and his emotions hardened.

  “I’m not going to give you to the Feds so you can cut a deal, you don’t get to hide behind the protection of our legal system,” Nick said, glancing over at Javier. “He does.”

  “But you can’t. I own Mexico,” Eztli blurted out, feeling his control slipping away. “I have billions hidden, precious archeological treasures you wouldn’t believe, let me tell you what I can do for you, for all of you . . .”

  “Tell it to my dad.”

  A gun fired, echoed briefly, and the cavern went silent.

  Chapter 36 – July 26

  The Park Service arrived first, alerted that some type of disturbance was taking place near Atlatl Cave. Finding bodies scattered outside and seeing survivors coming out of the cave, they quickly alerted the authorities, sealed off the area and closed all access to the ridge, the valley, and the mesa. State and federal authorities arrived shortly thereafter, and as soon as it became apparent an international drug cartel was involved, the Drug Enforcement Agency took charge of the situation. The media wasn’t allowed immediate access, and the only information to trickle out was from a DEA spokesman who provided a few carefully chosen, yet purposely vague remarks.

  “Now, let me make sure I’ve got this straight, a distant relative of yours was given a single gold link of a purported treasure, clues to its location, and this was handed down over time, ultimately to your father. He spent summers looking for it with you, your brother, and mother, and was killed this past winter by someone interested in this treasure, but you had no definitive proof. So you went west to scatter your parent’s ashes and picked up on the search from there. Right so far?” Robert Sommers, Director of the DEA, asked. William Bashant, Acting Director of the Department of the Interior, also awaited the answer.

  “Yes, sir,” Nick replied. He had told this story repeatedly to a slew of officials, to those in progressively higher offices, until he finally sat across from the head of the DEA and the Department of the Interior. The DEA wanted to neutralize the Texcoco drug cartel, capture and incarcerate its leadership and seize its assets, while the Department of the Interior would ultimately decide on the fate of the Aztec treasure found hidden within the confines of an American National Historical Park at Chaco Canyon. Mexico would want to deal with the drug cartel in its own way, and would no doubt claim national sovereignty over the treasure. Complex decisions and negotiations awaited both Directors, so they wanted to hear the unfiltered original story, directly from the horse’s mouth.

  “So you and this Navajo girl you met, Altsoba, together worked your way down to Mexico, where you uncovered more clues,” continued Director Sommers. “You then went to Spain, were met by one Philip Storm, evidently your mentor and PhD Advisor, and jointly uncovered more leads on the trail of this treasure. Back to Mexico you came, where you picked up Miss Altsoba, went back to the states, were joined by your brother, and together went to Zuni, New Mexico. Where an elderly gentleman of your acquaintance named Lonan was killed, and Altsoba forcibly kidnapped.” He paused, looking at his notes.

  “You know, this is simply incredible, the whole journey,” Director Bashant interjected, picking up the story. “You then decipher the clues your dad left you in his journal and on the back of a letter, follow them to find a treasure of the Aztec people that defies belief in a sealed cave in Chaco Canyon, enlist the help of three regional tribes to prepare an ambush, and take down the most ruthless cartel in the western hemisphere in a single night. Does that pretty well summarize it?”

  “Well, yes, I guess it does. But that cartel left a trail of bodies pursuing their goal, both north and south of the border. And good people gave their lives that night in Chaco Canyon bringing them down. None of this was accomplished without tremendous costs.”

  “We understand and sympathize with the sacrifices made. But if there is a silver lining in any of this, it is the fact that Javier Hernández survived,” Director Sommers interjected. “He may be minus an arm, but that’s the price he paid. And he’s already singing, he knows everything, and actually seems to show a little remorse. We’ll bring the Texcoco cartel down from the inside out.”

  “That’s great news,” Nick solemnly replied. “But if you need nothing more from me gentlemen, I have funerals to attend.” Both Directors offered their condolences, and he was shown out.

  The drive to where Killian was being buried on the Apache Reservation was somber despite Soba accompanying him, as they were both still licking their wounds, figuratively and literally. Charlie had been transported to Albuquerque, his shoulder gunshot wound serious but not life threatening. He would have the better story to tell, he could hear it now, as Nick’s was just a clean flesh wound through muscle only. But not only would Nick have to get through Killian’s funeral, he knew another awaited him after it, on Navajo land.

  Nick and Soba were met by Killian’s two brothers as they attended the ritual service on the Apache Reservation. It was a simple yet poignant ceremony. Nick could see life for those on the reservation was hard, the value of traditional ways fading, opportunities scarce. The youth had few role models here that valued the past, but certainly Killian was one. His parents had passed, but there were a number of other relatives and friends about, and Nick was spontaneously asked to say a few words, to try to put meaning behind such a loss.

  “Killian was a good friend, a good colleague, and most importantly a good human b
eing. He always saw the best in situations, in people, in the world. And he treasured his heritage and wanted nothing more than to have a hand in discovering it, in nurturing it, and passing it along. That is why he chose the career path he did, and why he chose to help me. Because he didn’t just belong to the Apache tribe, he belonged to the human tribe, and found our collective history just as important as his own. That is why he gave his life to protect it for future generations.” Nick found himself speaking about his friend expansively, about the choices and sacrifices he had made, and his fierce determination to do small acts that made a difference. About why he had joined the Army, why he went to college, and ultimately chose to come back and serve his people. He spoke extemporaneously and sincerely, about the loss of a dear friend.

  Feeling despondent and doubting he did any good, Nick made small talk with Killian’s brothers and Soba outside the meeting center. But he felt better as people left and offered condolences to Killian’s brothers and their thanks to him, and as several young people asked exactly what it was Killian went to school for, and if Nick would perhaps provide some guidance.

  “I think you gave exactly the message they needed to hear,” Soba said on the drive out. “You explained sacrifice for a cause greater than oneself, and you gave them a modicum of hope.”

  “I didn’t know I would be speaking, I hadn’t prepared anything. But when it’s about a good friend, you just speak the truth from the heart.”

  Soba leaned into him and sighed heavily. “You know, I don’t care what Colel says about you. You really aren’t half bad for a white guy.”

  They drove northward along familiar roads, through the Zuni Reservation, up towards the Navajo Reservation and home for Soba. As they got closer, they both girded themselves to say their goodbyes. It was particularly hard on Soba, as she had grown up with Tahoma and the other young Navajo who gave his life on that desperate night.

  Both were given the traditional burial of the Diné, or simply The People, as the tribe called themselves. Four people to mourn the deceased were chosen, including Bidzii, who prepared the body for the funeral ritual, carried it to the burial site led by a horse, and communicated only by a type of sign language. All passersby knew to avoid the path they took for four days, the official mourning time. The elders believed that the Chindi, the ghost left behind with the body’s last breath, contained the residue of everything that was bad about the deceased and must be avoided. Following the burial, many took part in self-purification with sage smoke.

  After the four days of mourning a non-traditional gathering was held, to commemorate the lives lost. Colel and several others from various tribes showed up to pay their respects and to support their dear friend Soba. The gesture genuinely touched her, and in her grief meant more than she could adequately express. Colel, her wild spirited alter ego, stoically stayed by her side, the mere presence of a kindred spirit providing a calming influence and unspoken support.

  Soba, the tribal outcast shunned in her youth, was now honored as the woman of the hour. The discovery in Atlatl Cave had brought prominence and pride upon the Navajo, that some of their own had such a hand in its unearthing. And the acts of heroism of their young men echoed past days of dignity and honor, when they were still a powerful, free nation.

  Bidzii, Atsa, and Yas struck up the band and played under the stars for all gathered, purposely leaving an empty chair on their makeshift stage. Nick and Soba heard the music drifting toward them on the wind, as they sat on a small westward facing peak. This particular spot had an uninterrupted view of the festivities below, of the entire Navajo Reservation. It had seemed an especially fitting place to bury Nanook, who had always loyally stood watch, their ever-vigilant sentinel.

  “I feel better knowing he is watching over my people,” Soba softly said, her voice trembling. “They will be safer for all time with him here.”

  The back to back dedication ceremonies went off without a hitch. In Mexico City, the former estate of Esteban “Eztli” González, head of the notorious Texcoco drug cartel, had been confiscated, then turned into a beautiful museum devoted to pre-Columbian Mesoamerican history. Not surprisingly, the current political administration had seen the discovery of Montezuma’s treasure, as it was being heralded in Mexico, as a boon to both their credibility in the drug war, and to the tourism dollars that would inevitably follow. Alejandro Diaz, the humble Mexican patriot Nick had met at the Palace of Cortez, was elevated to its Director, his many years of dedication being recognized and rewarded. Eztli’s vast private collection of bought, stolen, and looted antiquities, hidden from the public’s eyes for so many years, at last saw the light of day. The holdings of his drug empire were liquidated, a portion going to funding the museum and sponsoring Mesoamerican historical research and preservation in perpetuity. Nick wryly commented that Eztli’s empire had indeed expanded, just not in the way he had envisioned.

  Nick and Dr. Storm were named to the Board of Directors and had an active hand in the orchestration and presentation of the exhibits, helping decide what should be given special prominence. The solid gold Aztec Sunstone was moved upstairs, into the courtyard, now covered with a Louvre like clear pyramid that was based on the Hueteocalli Temple, allowing the sunstone and accompanying silverwork to be brilliantly shown as the tears of the sun and sweat of the moon. Stairs were added to the basement, with much of the collection still kept there, as well as the inner workings of the cartel’s information systems. Dr. Storm had joked that attending this would be like going to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and the Spy Museum in Washington at the same time, a veritable Disneyland for the whole family.

  Nick was pleased to hear a wing of the museum had been named the Francisco Martinez Gallery. It had been in honor of his friend Chico, who he met in Cuernavaca while doing research and had been assassinated by the cartel. Another wing of the museum was devoted to the newly discovered codices, which filled in a gap of knowledge in the historical record, told for the first time from the Aztec perspective, but most importantly from those who had actually lived it. There was also a living history segment, as Huehue now spent a few days per week explaining the codices and painting new ones for the exhibit. The craft of creating a codice was suddenly in vogue, and Huehue herself now seen as a national treasure.

  Soba, Bidzii, and Charlie joined Nick and Dr. Storm for the grand opening ceremony, feted as rock stars and trailed by the paparazzi, roles they all tried to avoid. The museum immediately became Mexico’s must-see tourist hot spot, so popular access had to be restricted, a lottery system instituted until demand diminished. An especially solicitous rumor was making the rounds in the tabloids, that Eztli’s skull rack, the one containing the heads of so many of his enemies, now contained his own. Wisely the new Director of the museum refused comment, fueling both speculation and gawking foot traffic.

  A week later they were all back at Chaco Canyon, an impressive museum having been created there as well. This one was purposely built from the ground up on the site of the old Visitors Center, with a dedicated museum and learning center, and a special glass encased walk through in Atlatl Cave itself, preserving the original native history and much of the treasure, left in situ. Permanent bronze memorials had been set up where Tahoma, the other young Navajo, and Killian had each fought and died. There was even a bronze of Nanook up on the ridge, next to Killian’s, the nose already rubbed to a shiny gloss by sympathetic visitors, especially the children.

  William Bashant, Director of the Department of the Interior and never one to resist good publicity, shared the ribbon cutting with Nick and Soba. While Nick and Dr. Storm were again named board members, this was especially poignant as Soba had been named Special Counsel for Legacy Preservation and Living History of the newly established museum. Her vision to preserve the languages, oral histories and traditions of native peoples was now her professional charter. Her first act was to fast track a program to video record interviews with tribal elders across the land, before they took their stories awa
y with them forever. Soba then set up a series of internships to give those interested in the field some real hand’s on experience. She joked she was actively grooming the next generation.

  An agreement had been struck between the Mexican and American governments to periodically rotate key artifacts between the two museums, although ownership of what was found in Atlatl cave was never relinquished by American authorities. Cibola, as the treasure was known everywhere but in Mexico, suddenly became the most sought-after tourist destination in the country despite its somewhat remote location. Access was carefully managed, lest the popularity of the new museum diminish the land and people it was meant to celebrate. Renewed interest in the story of the discovery of the New World, of its conquest, of the treasure of Cibola, provided an economic boom to the tribes of the Southwest, and provided a deeper understanding of their struggles and enduring legacy. As did the liquidation of cartel assets and the subsequent programs they funded, on both sides of the border.

  Dr. Storm was pleased by the appearance of his good friend and colleague Juan Ramirez, the Spanish Minister of Culture, who flew in especially for the dedication. “I think the Mexicans are still mad at us Spaniards, so I came to this one instead of Mexico City,” he half-jokingly said.

  Moments before giving his dedication speech, Director Bashant informed Nick and Charlie that the central part of the new museum, the one which would display the breath taking and timeless Mask of Montezuma, was being named the Albert LaBounty Gallery in honor of their father. Overcome with emotion, Nick took a moment to compose himself, then stepped to the podium.