Havana Storm (Dirk Pitt Adventure)

by Clive Cussler

  Ramsey slid the chart in front of him. “General, I know it took considerable effort within your government to allow our consortium to come into your territorial waters. I appreciate what you’ve done for us. But we were given authorization to explore only two small offshore quadrants, neither of which our geophysicists rated highly promising. For us to have success and allow you to develop an export oil market, we need access to additional seafloor.”

  “Mr. Ramsey, I might remind you that there are other parties seeking the same opportunity.”

  “We’re talking deepwater operations. It’s a different ball game. It’ll take you twice as long if you go with the boys from Venezuela or Mexico . . . or the Middle East.”

  “But you yourself are a mining engineer.”

  “True, my expertise is with mining. In fact, I’m just a limited partner in this joint venture. I’m here only because the venture group’s CEO is recovering from a mild heart attack. But I can assure you, our group of Canadian and Norwegian oil exploration experts have extensive experience in the North Sea and Arctic. They’ll get the job done. They have deepwater experience you can’t find just anywhere.”

  “But you have yet to show results.”

  “In the oil business, there are no guarantees.”

  Gutier gazed at the map. “Where is it you would like to drill?”

  Ramsey pointed to a large area a hundred miles northwest of Havana. “Given a choice, the North Cuba Basin is at the top of our probability list.”

  “I might have some sway to open up a portion for your examination. But I will require something in return.” His dark eyes bore into Ramsey.

  “Name it.”

  “I understand you recently had some troubles with a mining operation in Indonesia.”

  “The trouble was with some Islamic militants. They kidnapped my site mine supervisor and three engineers—in broad daylight off the streets of Jakarta.”

  “And they were rescued?”

  “All alive and well, thankfully.”

  “And their captors?”

  “Not so fortunate.” Ramsey offered a wry smile. “They were killed in a firefight.”

  “But not by government forces.”

  “No. Why the interest?”

  “I have a project that requires some outside military expertise.”

  “You have the top forces of the Cuban military at your disposal.”

  “True, but this is an external project that requires absolute discretion.”

  “Not in the U.S., is it?”

  “No.”

  Ramsey nodded.

  “I’d like to hire your men,” Gutier said.

  “They’re not my men. They were hired contractors who specialize in this type of work.”

  “Would they work for me?”

  “I don’t see why not, providing you’re not a secret al-Qaeda sympathizer.”

  “If it makes you feel better, my mother was a devout Roman Catholic and raised my brother and me as such.”

  Ramsey stepped to his desk and returned with a slip of paper containing a name and phone number.

  “Maguire?” Gutier read aloud. “That’s it?”

  “That’s my contact. The phone number—and a Cayman Islands bank account—is all the information I possess.”

  “He is a professional?”

  “First-rate. I just wouldn’t ask him a lot of questions.”

  Gutier stood to leave. “I’m sorry for the loss of your ship. You will have access to the new oil lease site shortly.” He turned and walked out of the salon.

  Ramsey didn’t move. Staring out the window as Gutier’s launch motored away, he couldn’t help but wonder if he had just made a deal with the devil.

  11

  The rays of the dive light shimmered through the crystalline waters, illuminating a coarse limestone wall a dozen feet away. No detail was too small to see, Summer Pitt thought, amazed at the clarity. Though she missed the color and warmth of the sea life that made a usual saltwater dive enticing, she relished the opportunity to dive in perfect visibility. Peering up, she watched as her air bubbles floated to the surface a hundred feet away.

  The daughter of NUMA’s Director and an oceanographer herself, Summer was diving in a cenote near the coast of Tabasco, a state in eastern Mexico. A natural sinkhole formed in a limestone deposit, the cenote was essentially a vertical, water-filled tunnel. Summer had the sensation of traveling through an elevator shaft as she descended the fifty-foot-diameter cavern. As the filtered sunlight waned, she turned her dive light to the depths below. A few yards away, two other divers were kicking toward the sandy bottom. She cleared her ears and pursued the other divers, catching them as they reached the bottom at a depth of one hundred and twenty feet.

  She swam alongside a dark-haired man whose tall, lanky body matched her own. He turned and winked, the joy of the cenote dive evident in his bright green eyes. Her twin brother, Dirk, who shared their father’s name, always showed an extra jolt of liveliness when exploring the depths.

  They finned toward the third diver, a bearded man whose shaggy gray hair swirled around his facemask. Dr. Eduardo Madero, an anthropology professor from the University of Veracruz, was carefully examining the bottom. Dirk and Summer had just completed a joint marine project with Madero, assessing an area of coral reefs off Campeche. In appreciation for their help, Madero had invited them to dive in the isolated Tabasco cenote, where he was engaged in his own cultural resource project.

  Madero hovered over a large aluminum grid anchored over a portion of the cenote’s floor. Small yellow flags with numbered tags sprouted from the sand, marking artifacts discovered during the formal excavation. Most of the targets of Madero’s excavation were readily visible.

  Easing alongside him, Dirk and Summer aimed their dive lights at the partially excavated section. Summer immediately recoiled. A human skull stared up at her, grinning ghoulishly with brown-stained teeth. A pair of small gold hoops glistened in the sand beside the skull, a pair of hand-fashioned earrings once worn by the smiling owner.

  Summer swung her light about, revealing a morbid assortment of protruding skulls and bones. Madero hadn’t exaggerated when he cautioned them before the dive that it was like visiting a graveyard struck by a tornado.

  The fact that the cenote had been used for human sacrifices seemed apparent, but Madero had yet to identify its occupants. The location was in a region once inhabited by the Olmecs, and later the Mayans, although Madero could not date any finds to either era. A small ceramic figurine had been dated to 1500 A.D., concurrent with Aztec rule farther north, and close to the time of the Spanish conquest.

  Gazing at the exposed skull, Summer envisioned the ceremonial human sacrifice that had taken place centuries before on the cenote’s rim. If it was an Aztec ritual, the victim would have been held facing the sky while a high priest plunged a razor-sharp flint knife into the victim’s chest and ripped out the still-beating heart. The heart and blood were offerings to the gods, possibly the warrior deity, who ensured the sun’s daily travels across the sky.

  In some instances, the victim’s limbs would be severed and consumed in a ritual meal while the torso was tossed into the cenote. In the case of the Aztecs, human sacrifice occurred daily. The smiling skull looking up at Summer might just be one of hundreds of victims sacrificed from the unknown village that once stood overhead. She shivered at the thought despite the warmth of her wetsuit.

  Summer turned and followed Madero as he guided them over several excavation pits, pointing out a basalt grinding bowl, or molcajete, that had yet to be cataloged and removed. After several more minutes surveying the grisly bits of human remains, Madero motioned with his thumb toward the surface. Their bottom time had expired.

  Only too glad to depart the submerged graveyard, Summer gently swam toward the surface ahead of the two men. As she f
ollowed her trail of ascending bubbles, she brushed along the limestone wall. A wayward kick jammed the edge of her fin against a protrusion, nearly pulling it off her foot. To her left, a ledge jutted from the wall and she propped an elbow against it as she readjusted her fin.

  She pushed off from the ledge to continue her ascent but felt a smooth shape beneath her arm. She hesitated, examining the narrow ledge, which was crowned with a thick mantle of silt. As she fanned her hand through the water, she brushed away a layer of loose sediment that swirled upward in a brown cloud. As it began to settle, an image emerged through the murk, a painted butterfly.

  Madero approached and glanced at the ledge. A glimmer of recognition sparkled in his wide eyes. He gently brushed a gloved hand over the surface, then dug his fingers into the sediment, tracing the object’s perimeter. Caught on the ledge during its descent, it had no associated cultural context to warrant a more methodical excavation. He scooped the silt aside, exposing a ceramic container roughly the size of a jewelry box. The lone corner not encrusted with sediment featured a tiny butterfly.

  Madero motioned for Summer to take the box and ascend. She gingerly lifted it from its perch like the box was a ticking bomb and then kicked toward the surface.

  Their limited time on the bottom didn’t require a decompression stop, so she continued finning until her head popped above the calm surface. She floated near a makeshift stairwell as Madero exited the cenote and dropped his dive gear, then returned to take the box from Summer’s anxious fingers. Dirk followed her as she climbed up the steps. They quickly stripped off their wetsuits as the steamy heat of the Mexican Gulf Coast enveloped them.

  “The water was amazing,” she whispered to Dirk, “but I could have done without the graveyard tour.”

  He shrugged. “Not the worst place to spend eternity, after losing your heart.”

  “What did they do with the hearts?”

  “Burned them, I believe. They might have left a few in inventory.” Dirk waved an arm about the surrounding light jungle. Madero had found only scattered remains of a temple structure and an adjacent village near the cenote. Little of it was now recognizable. Only a pair of canvas tents, used by Madero and his associates during their periodic excavations, gave any hint of human occupation.

  The archeologist had taken Summer’s box to a nearby table. Summer and Dirk approached as he carefully brushed away a layer of concretion with an old toothbrush.

  “So what did Summer find?” Dirk asked. “An old box of cigars?”

  “No es una caja de cigarros,” Summer replied with a shake of her head.

  Madero smiled. “Your Spanish is good.” He kept his eyes focused on the box. “I believe it is in fact something much more remarkable.”

  Summer crowded in close to study the artifact. “What do you think it was used for?”

  “I really can’t say, but the design certainly appears Aztec. They were wonderful artisans. I’ve viewed a large number of artifacts but never anything like this.” He set down the toothbrush and tilted the box toward Summer.

  “The shape is unique,” he said. “A perfect square is much more difficult to create out of clay than a round pot. And look at this.”

  He pointed to the seam along the edge of the lid, which was sealed with a gray substance.

  “Glued shut,” Dirk said.

  “Exactly. It looks like dried latex, which is easily extracted from the local rubber trees.” He picked up the box and gently shook it. A light object rattled inside.

  “It’s remained sealed and watertight despite its immersion,” Madero said. “The sediments covering the box must have provided a layer of protection.”

  “What do you think is inside?” Summer asked.

  Madero shook his head. “There’s no telling. Once we get it back to my lab in Veracruz, we can X-ray it, then remove the latex and open it.”

  Dirk grinned. “I still say it’s some musty cigars.”

  “Perhaps.” Madero set the box down with reverence. “But I think it could contain something much more significant.”

  He picked up the toothbrush and lightly scrubbed the center of the lid, gradually revealing a bright green circular pattern. Inlaid stones of green and blue were impressed into the design. The wing of a bird began to take shape.

  “The Aztecs incorporated animals into much of their artwork,” Madero said. “Eagles and jaguars were popular motifs, representing the warrior classes.”

  Summer studied the expanding image. “It’s a bird of some sort, but I don’t think it’s an eagle. Were other birds used symbolically?”

  “Yes, especially exotic tropical birds. Their plumage was highly valued, more so than gold. The emperor and other nobility would commission elaborate headdresses from feathers of a green jungle bird called the quetzal. Then there is Huitzilopochtli. He was the ancestral deity of the Aztecs, perhaps their most important god. He was a patron of war but also of their home of Tenochtitlan. He was the guiding force for the Mexica in their original migration from Aztlán to Tenochtitlan—what is now Mexico City.”

  “And he was associated with a bird?” Summer asked.

  “Yes, a blue hummingbird. The image was typically reserved for items of the ruling class.”

  Madero blew away the loosened debris and held the box toward Summer. She could now see the stones were pieces of jade and turquoise. They were joined by inlaid bone and pyrite in the shape of a bird in flight. There was no mistaking the animal’s stubby wings and long, thin bill.

  It was a blue hummingbird.

  12

  All eyes were focused on the now cleaned ceramic box. Perched on a steel table in a lab adjacent to Dr. Madero’s college office, its secrets beckoned under a bank of fluorescent lights.

  Madero treated the lid’s sealed edges with a solvent, then heated the seams with a small hair dryer. The combined effects softened the natural latex and loosened its bond. Madero tested the gooey material with a plastic putty knife.

  “It’s quite sticky,” he said. “I think it will open right up.”

  Grasping the lid with a gloved hand, he gave it a gentle tug. The lid popped right off.

  Standing on either side of Madero, Dirk and Summer leaned close. A small piece of green felt blanketed a square object inside. Madero pulled away the felt, revealing a tablet of coarse pages.

  “It looks like a small book,” Summer said.

  Madero’s eyes were as wide as platters. Using tweezers, he opened the blank top page, revealing a colorful cartoon-like image of several warriors carrying spears and shields.

  “Not simply a book.” Madero’s voice quivered with excitement. “A codex.”

  Summer was familiar with the Mayan and Aztec codices, pictographic manuscripts that recorded their culture and history, but she had never seen one in person. She was surprised when Madero pulled up the first page and the subsequent ones unfolded in accordion fashion. Each contained a pictorial image with multiple glyphic signs.

  “Is it Mayan?” Dirk asked.

  “No, classic Nahuatl.”

  Summer frowned. “Nahuatl?”

  “The language of the Mexica, or Aztecs. I recognize the glyphs as classic Nahuatl symbols.”

  “Can you decipher it?”

  Madero unfurled the codex across the table, counting twenty panels. He photographed each panel first and then carefully studied the images. He kept his thoughts to himself as he moved from one panel to the next. The early panels depicted a battle, while later ones showed men carrying a large object. After several minutes, Madero looked up.

  “It seems to describe a local conflict. An account of the battle was recorded in stone, which was split in two and carried away for some reason.” He shook his head. “I must profess to being a little out of my element here. A colleague of mine, Professor Miguel Torres, is an expert in Nahuatl. Let me see if he is available.�
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  Madero returned a moment later, trailed by two men.

  “Dirk, Summer, this is my esteemed associate Dr. Miguel Torres, head of the archeology department. Miguel, my friends from NUMA.”

  A bearded man with a smiling cherub face stepped forward and shook hands.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you. Congratulations on your amazing discovery.” His eyes darted to the codex. He suppressed his curiosity long enough to introduce the man behind him.

  “May I present Juan Díaz of the Cuban Interior Ministry? Juan is here performing research on his own Aztec artifact. Like myself, he is excited to view your discovery.”

  Díaz smiled. “Apparently your find is much more interesting than the small figurine I possess.”

  “You found an Aztec artifact in Cuba?” Summer asked.

  “It likely found its way there through later trade,” Torres said. “While Aztec nautical voyages in the Caribbean are a possibility, we have no recorded evidence of any occurrences.”

  The professor turned his attention to the codex. “Eduardo already showed me the ceramic box. A wonderful discovery in itself. But a codex inside as well?”

  “Please,” Summer said, “take a look and tell us what you think.”

  The archeologist could barely contain his excitement. He slipped on a pair of cotton gloves and approached the codex.

  “The paper is classic amatl, constructed from the inner bark of the fig tree, which was then whitewashed. That is consistent with several known Aztec codices. It is crisp, bright, and in excellent condition. Simply amazing, after being submerged for centuries.”

  “Fine craftsmanship from the ancients,” Madero said, “as we’ve seen many times before.”

  Torres studied the first panel. “It appears similar to the Borturini Codex at the National Anthropology Museum.” He pointed to several symbols below the image of the warriors. “That codex dates from the colonial era.”

  “Do you mean the arrival of the Spanish?” Summer asked.

  “Yes. In 1519, to be precise. That’s when Cortés landed near Veracruz.”