Treasure of Khan dp-19

by Clive Cussler

  The sun was dropping toward the western horizon like a fluorescent billiard ball when the two men finally roused themselves. The sleep break did little to restore their energy levels, however, and they departed the village in a lethargic state. They began hiking with noticeable effort, yet moved at a snail's pace, as if each man had aged forty years in his sleep. Pitt took another bearing with his watch against the sun's rays and led them in a westerly direction again, foregoing any thoughts of trying to trace the underground pipeline. They moved in unspoken unison, willing their bodies forward with each step, as the first hints of delirium began to fog their minds.

  The winds gradually began to kick up again, jabbing and swirling in sporadic gusts as a prelude to the force that was to come. The northerly wind brought with it a cold chill. Both men had carried a thin section of felt from the storage tank and wrapped their heads and torsos in the fabric like a poncho. Pitt targeted a distant S-shaped ridge for a bearing as the sun slid away, focusing his efforts on maintaining a straight course. As the winds picked up, he knew his North Star compass would be obscured, and the last thing they needed in their state was to be wandering around in circles.

  An annoying mantra, "move or die," began to repeat endlessly in his head, urging him forward. Pitt could feel the swelling in the back of his parched throat and tried to put the unyielding thirst out of his mind. He glanced at Giordino, who bulled ahead with listless eyes. Both their energies and exhausted mental capacities were concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Time seemed to fade away for Pitt, and consciousness nearly as well. He drifted along, then felt his eyes pop open, not sure if he had fallen asleep on his feet. How long he was out, he had no idea, but at least Giordino was still there, trudging along beside him. His mind began to wander, thinking of his wife, Loren, who served in Congress back in Washington. Though lovers for many years, they had only just recently married, Pitt reasoning that his days of globe-trotting adventure were behind him. She'd known the wanderlust would never leave his blood, even if he didn't. Within months of his ascension to the head of NUMA, he grew restless with managing the agency from its Washington headquarters. It was Loren who urged him to take to the field, knowing he was happiest when working with his first love, the sea. Time apart would make their love stronger, she told him, though he doubted she meant it. Yet he wouldn't interfere with her career on the Hill, so he followed her words. Now he wondered if doing so would end up making her a widow.

  It was an hour later, maybe two, when the winds decided to make an appearance in earnest, blowing hard from the northwest. The stars above quickly melted away in the dust, obscuring their only source of light. As the blowing dust settled over them in a cottony haze, Pitt's landmark ridge disappeared from view. It was no matter, though, as Pitt stared down at his feet with numb fatigue.

  They moved like zombies, lifeless in appearance but unwilling to stop walking. Giordino moved methodically forward alongside Pitt, as if an invisible tether kept the two men linked together. The winds grew intense, stinging their face and eyes with blasting sand that made it painful to see. Still they trudged ahead, though well off their westerly track. The exhausted men began zigzagging to the south, in a subconscious effort to flee the biting wind.

  They staggered on in a timeless whirl until Pitt detected Giordino trip over some rocks and fall down next to him. Pitt stopped and reached out to help his friend up. A burly hand rose up and grabbed Pitt's, then yanked hard in the other direction. Pitt sprawled toward Giordino, tripping over him and falling into a bed of soft sand. Lying there dazed, he noticed the blasting sand was no longer peppering his body.

  Unseen in the turbulent night, Giordino had tripped over a rock piling, behind which lay an indented cove protected from the howling winds. Pitt reached out and touched the rock wall with one hand as he felt Giordino crawl alongside and collapse. With a last ounce of energy, Pitt unwrapped his felt cloth and draped it over both their heads for warmth, then lay back on the soft sand and closed his eyes.

  Beneath the screeching desert sandstorm, both men fell unconscious.

  -29-

  Giordino was dreaming. He dreamed that he was floating in a still pond of tropical water.

  The warm liquid was unusually dense, like syrup, making his movements a slow and laborious effort. The water suddenly lapped at his face in a series of small hot waves. He jerked his head to escape the surf, but the warm moisture followed his motion. Then something about the dream became overly vivid. It was an odor, a very unpleasant one at that. A smell too powerful to reside in a dream. The repulsive aroma finally spurred him awake and he forcefully cocked open a heavy eyelid.

  Bright sunshine stung at his eyes, but he could squint enough to see there was no aqua blue water lapping at his body. Instead, a giant pink swab descended on him with a hot wipe across one cheek. Jerking his head away, he saw the pink swab roll behind a picket fence of large yellow teeth housed in a snout that appeared a mile long. The beast exhaled a breath that bathed Giordino's face in a putrid cloud of onion, garlic, and Limburger cheese.

  Popping open both eyes and shaking off the cobwebs, he stared past the expansive snout into two chocolate-brown eyes shrouded behind long eyelashes. The camel blinked curiously at Giordino, then let out a short bellow before stepping back to nibble at a fringe of felt protruding from the sand.

  Giordino struggled to sit up, realizing the syrupy water in his dream was a layer of sun-warmed sand. A drift of sand nearly a foot thick had piled up in the little cove during the sandstorm the night before.

  Weakly pulling his arms out of the morass, Giordino nudged the figure next to him similarly buried under felt and sand, then scooped away handfuls of the brown silica. The felt rustled a bit then was thrown back, exposing the drawn and haggard face of Pitt. His face was sunburned, his lips bloated and chapped. Yet the sunken green eyes sparkled at seeing his friend alive.

  "Another day in paradise," he rasped through a parched mouth, taking in their surroundings. The overnight sandstorm had blown itself out, leaving them bathed in sunshine under a clear blue sky.

  They heaved their bodies upright, the sand falling off them in rivulets. Giordino sneaked a hand into his pocket and nodded slightly in reassurance, finding the horseshoe still there.

  "We've got company," he wheezed, his voice sounding like steel wool on sandpaper.

  Pitt crawled weakly from under the blanket of sand and peered at the beast of burden standing a few feet away. It was a Bactrian camel, as evidenced by the two humps on his back that sagged slightly to one side. The animal's matted fur was a rich mocha brown, which darkened around its flanks. The camel returned Pitt's stare for a few seconds, then resumed its nibbling on the blanket.

  "The ship of the desert," Pitt said.

  "Looks more like a tugboat. Do we eat him or ride him?"

  Pitt was contemplating whether they had the strength to do either when a shrill whistle blared from behind a dune. A small boy bobbed over the sand, riding a dappled tan horse. He wore a green del, and his short black hair was hidden under a faded baseball cap. The boy rode up to the camel, calling it by name as he approached. When the camel popped his head up, the boy quickly looped a pole-mounted lasso around the animal's neck and pulled the rope tight. Only then did he glance down and notice Pitt and Giordino lying on the ground. The startled boy stared wide-eyed at the two haggard men who resembled ghosts in the sand.

  "Hello." Pitt smiled warmly at the boy. He climbed unsteadily to his feet as a pool of sand slid off his clothes. "Can you help us?"

  "You ... talk English," the boy stammered.

  "Yes. You can understand me?"

  "I learn English at monastery," he replied proudly, enunciating each syllable.

  "We are lost," Giordino said hoarsely. "Can you share food or water?"

  The boy slipped off his wooden saddle and produced a goatskin canteen filled with water. Pitt and Giordino took turns attacking the water, taking small sips at first then
working up to large gulps. As they drank, the boy pulled a scarf out of his pocket, which was wrapped around a block of sun-dried curds.

  Cutting it into small pieces, he offered it to the men, who gratefully split the rubbery milk residue and washed it down with the last of the water.

  "My name is Noyon," the boy said. "What is yours?"

  "I am Dirk and this is Al. We are very happy to meet you, Noyon."

  "You are fools, Dirk and Al, to be in the Gobi without water and a mount," he said sternly. His youthful face softened with a smile, and he added, "You come with me to my home, where you will be welcomed by my family. It is less than a kilometer from here. A short ride for you."

  The boy slipped off his horse and removed the small wooden saddle, then prodded Pitt and Giordino to climb aboard. The Mongol pony was not tall, and Pitt easily pulled himself onto its back, then helped hoist Giordino on behind him. Noyon grabbed the reins and led them north across the desert, the roped camel following behind.

  They traveled just a short distance before Noyon led them around a thick sandstone ridge. On the opposite side, a large herd of camels were scattered about a shallow plain, foraging for scrub grass that sprouted through the stony ground. In the center of the field stood a lone ger, shrouded in dirty white canvas, its southerly door painted a weathered orange. Two poles with a rope tied across acted as an adjacent corral, securing several stout brown horses. A rugged, cleanshaven man with penetrating dark eyes was saddling one of the horses when the small caravan rode up.

  "Father, I have found these men lost in the desert," the boy said in his native tongue. "They are from America."

  The man took one look at the bedraggled figures of Pitt and Giordino and knew they had flirted with Erleg Khan, the Mongolian lord of the lower world. He quickly helped them down off the horse, returning the feeble shake of the hand offered by each exhausted man.

  "Secure the horse," he barked at his son, then led the two men into his home.

  Ducking and entering the ger, Pitt and Giordino were amazed at the warm decor of the interior, which was in stark contrast to the tent's drab exterior. Brightly patterned carpets covered every square inch of the dirt floor, melding with vibrant floral weavings that covered the tent's lattice-framed walls. Cabinets and tables were painted cheerful hues of red, orange, and blue, while the ceiling support frames were painted lemon yellow.

  The interior was configured in a traditional ger layout, symbolic of the role superstition plays in daily nomadic life. To the left of the entrance was a rack and cabinet for the man's saddle and other belongings. The right section of the ger, the "female" side, held the cooking implements. A hearth and cooking stove was situated in the center, attached to a metal stovepipe that rose through an opening in the tent's ceiling. Three low beds were positioned around the perimeter walls, while the back wall was reserved for the family altar.

  Noyon's father led Pitt and Giordino around the left side of the ger to some stools near the hearth. A slight woman with long black hair and cheerful eyes tending a battered teapot smiled at the men. Seeing their exhausted state, she brought damp towels to wash their face and hands, then set some strips of mutton to boil in a pot of water. Noticing the bloody bandage on Pitt's leg, she cleaned the dressing as the men downed cup after cup of watery black tea. When the mutton was cooked, she proudly served up a giant portion to each man, accompanied by a tray of dried cheeses. To the famished men, the flavor-challenged meal tasted like French haute cuisine. After devouring the mutton and cheese, the man brought over a leather bag filled with the home-fermented mare's milk, called airag, and filled three cups.

  Noyon entered the ger and sat down behind the men to act as interpreter for his parents, who did not speak English. His father spoke quietly in a deep tone, looking Pitt and Giordino in the eye.

  "My father, Tsengel, and my mother, Ariunaa, welcome you to their home," the boy said.

  "We thank you for your hospitality. You have truly saved our lives," Pitt said, sampling the airag with a toast. He decided the brew tasted like warm beer mixed with buttermilk.

  "Tell me, what are you doing in the Gobi without provisions?" Tsengel asked through his son.

  "We became separated from our tour group during a brief visit into the desert," Giordino fibbed. "We retraced our steps but got lost when the sandstorm struck last night."

  "You were lucky my son found you. There are few settlements in this region of the desert."

  "How far are we from the nearest village?" Pitt asked.

  "There is a small settlement about twenty kilometers from here. But enough questions for now," Tsengel said, seeing the weary look in both men's eyes. "You must rest after your meal. We will talk again later."

  Noyon led the men to two of the small beds, then followed his father outside to tend the herd. Pitt lay back on the cushioned bed and admired the bright yellow roof supports overhead before falling into a deep, heavy sleep.

  He and Giordino woke before dusk to the recurring smell of mutton boiling on the hearth. They stretched their legs outside the ger, walking amid the docile herd of camels that roamed freely about. Tsengel and Noyon soon came galloping up, having spent the afternoon rounding up strays.

  "You are looking fit now," Tsengel said through his son.

  "Feeling fit as well," Pitt replied. The food, liquids, and rest had quickly revitalized the two men and they felt surprisingly refreshed.

  "My wife's cooking. It is an elixir," the man grinned. Tying their horses to the hitching rope then washing at a bucket of soapy water, he led them back into the ger. Another meal of mutton and dried cheese awaited them, accompanied by cooked noodles. This time, Pitt and Giordino consumed the meal with much less relish. The airag was produced earlier and poured in larger quantities, consumed out of small ceramic bowls that never seemed to empty.

  "You have an impressive herd," Giordino remarked, complimenting his host. "How many head?"

  "We own one hundred thirty camels and five horses," Tsengel replied. "A satisfactory herd, yet it is a quarter the size of what we once owned on the other side of the border."

  "In Chinese Inner Mongolia?"

  "Yes, the so-called autonomous region, which has become little more than another Chinese province."

  Tsengel looked into the fire with a glint of anger in his eyes.

  "Why did you leave?"

  Tsengel nodded toward a faded black-and-white photograph on the altar, which showed a boy on a horse and an older man holding the reins. The penetrating eyes of the boy revealed it was a young Tsengel, alongside his own father.

  "At least five generations of my ancestors have herded on the eastern fields of the Gobi. My father owned a herd of over two thousand camels at one time. But those days have vanished in the winds.

  There is no place for a simple herder in those lands anymore. The Chinese bureaucrats keep commandeering the land without regard to its natural balance. Time and again, we have been pushed out of our ancestral grazing lands and forced to drive our herds to the harshest portions of the desert.

  Meanwhile, they suck the water out wherever they can, for the noble cause of industrializing the state. As a result, the grasslands are disappearing right under their noses. The desert is growing day by day, but it is a dead desert. The fools will not see it until the sands begin to consume their capital of Beijing, by which time it will be too late. For my family's sake, I had no choice but to cross the border. The grazing conditions are sparse, but at least the herder is still respected here," he said proudly.

  Pitt took another sip of the bitter-tasting airag as he studied the old photograph.

  "It is always a crime to take away a man's livelihood," he said.

  His gaze drifted over to a framed print mounted at the back of the altar. The portrait of a rotund man with a stringy goatee peered back, drawn in an ancient stylized hand.

  "Tsengel, who is that on the altar?"

  "The Yuan emperor, Kublai. Most powerful ruler of the world, yet benevolent fr
iend of the common man," Tsengel replied, as if the emperor were still alive.

  "Kublai Khan?" Giordino asked.

  Tsengel nodded. "It was a far better time when the Mongol ruled China," he added wistfully.

  "It is a much different world today, I'm afraid," Pitt said.

  The airag was taking its toll on Tsengel, who had consumed several bowls of the potent brew. His eyes grew glassy and his emotions more visceral as the mare's milk disappeared down his throat. Finding the geopolitical conversation becoming a little too sensitive for the man, Pitt tried to change the subject.

  "Tsengel, we stumbled upon a strange sight in the desert before the sandstorm struck. It was an artificial village surrounded by wooden camels. Do you know the place?"

  Tsengel responded by laughing with a throaty guffaw.

  "Ah, yes, the richest herdsmen in the Gobi. Only his mares don't produce a drop of milk," he smiled, taking another sip of airag.

  "Who built it?" Giordino asked.

  "A large crew of men appeared in the desert with equipment, pipe, and a digging machine. They dug tunnels under the surface that run for many kilometers. I was paid a small fee to direct their foreman to the nearest well. He told me that they worked for an oil company in Ulaanbaatar, but were sworn not to tell anyone of their work. Several of the crewmen who talked loudly had disappeared suddenly and the rest of the workers were very nervous. They quickly built the wooden camels and large tanks that look like gers, then the men vanished. The tanks in the village stand empty, collecting only dust from the wind.

  That was many months ago, and I have seen no one return since. It is just like the others."