Cyborg 03 - High Crystal

by Martin Caidin

  “Then there is only one way,” Carla said. “We must walk.”

  A groan came from Rudy Wells. “I was afraid someone might get that idea.” He looked at Carla and shook his head. “Walk?”

  Viejo had waited. “Miss Yavari,” he said, “do you know what that jungle valley is like?”

  “Of course I know. I know my country as well as—”

  “You do not know this country,” Viejo said. “Unless you have, yourself, been there, you do not know. Nothing compares with it.”

  “Colonel, we came here looking for something,” Steve said. “Dr. Jennings tells us Temple Mountain is where we may find what we’re after. We’re going.”

  “Colonel,” Carla said quietly to Viejo, “you will not stop us, will you?”

  Viejo stared ahead, seemed to evade her question.

  Dr. Yavari leaned forward, addressing Colonel Viejo in Spanish, but Viejo answered in English. “During the day I tried to reach the Ayabaca airport. By radio from the C-47. That way I could get word to my headquarters, ask for more men.” He shook his head. “Impossible. In any case, it might have taken them days or a week to get here. With the weather over those mountains—”

  Carla again, her voice pleasant but insistent. “You have not answered me, colonel.”

  “Why this mountain?” demanded Viejo. “How do you know this is the mountain?”

  “Colonel Viejo, I owe you an apology,” Yavari said in a tone that took them all by surprise. “We have been foolish. Of course, how could you have known?”

  Carla stepped in. “What we know as Temple Mountain,” she said, “was so named because of its unusual shape. The steep, inwardly sloping walls always seemed to have a strange character to them, as if nature had grown from its rock a temple. Colonel Viejo, it has been right before our eyes all this time. The upper ramparts of the mountain . . . we believe it is a temple, not simply shaped like a temple. The high section, the high seven or eight hundred feet, colonel, is the temple we have been seeking.”

  “You mean the temple rests on top of the mountain?”

  “No, we believe the peak is not the mountain. We believe the peak was built . . . by the Caya. You can surely understand, Colonel Viejo, that my father and I feel literally a magnetic pull from that place that was built by our ancestors.”

  It took them one full day to work their way down from the Chalhuanca Plateau. One full day of lurching, stumbling progress, the undergrowth thickening with every mile down.

  They left the Chalhuanca at first sign of light the morning after their confrontation in the tent. The temperature rose with every hour. The sun broke through intermittently as broken clouds swept high over them, adding to the heat of the day, but not as much as their decreasing elevation.

  They had expected fairly easy going. They were still strong and the air pressure went up as the height went down, but the surface underfoot was treacherous. Lava rock beneath the tropical growth crumbled easily. Scraped skin became a common ailment, and everyone took special care to avoid a sprained ankle. As the temperature rose they began to remove their outer clothing, bulk and weight they would gladly have thrown away except that they knew its urgent need when they began to work their way up the flanks of Temple Mountain.

  The heavy rains of previous days had turned much of the ground into a treacherous bog that became evident only when their feet went through the leafy growth underfoot and they discovered the effort needed simply to lift one foot after the other. Years of sifting leaves and natural debris, and the rain washing down the looser soil from the slopes of the Chalhuanca, turned other large areas into this same energy-sapping muck, a substratum thick enough to lay in the hand but unable to support their weight. This mess was worsened by the heavy growth all about them that had to be slashed with machete.

  Steve, Viejo, Mueller alternated as point, trying to help Jennings and Yavari in their progress by making footfalls for them—so that they could step where the leaders had walked. It worsened the problem, for any foot pressure brought the water closer to the surface, and the weight of two people in one place meant sinking deeper into the muck. It went slowly, enervatingly, and Temple Mountain, lying now just east of north, seemed farther and farther away.

  Viejo took breaks every ninety minutes, not so much for himself as for the others, who were still too fired by the promise of what lay before them to pace themselves properly. He watched them for signs of weakness, overexertion, and as the hours went by he kept looking more and more at Steve Austin. To Viejo’s skilled eye the American was actually disturbing. After seeing him slash aside vines and creepers and heavy growth with a machete that seemed possessed of its own strength, he recalled the Helio Courier and the throttle quadrant crushed to metal pulp. He said nothing, though he noted that it was when Steve Austin took the lead, cutting a path for the rest of them, that they made their best time.

  And then it was time to quit for the first day, except where to spend the night? Underfoot it was still damp, but trees lifted massive roots from the muck to form shelflike upthrusts, and the roots themselves were covered with an orange moss that was springy and yielding. With their bedrolls well secured they would be safe here for the night. After dinner eaten from cans, Viejo made sure they were wedged in properly. Then he went twenty yards from where they were clustered and from a tree branch he hung a small but powerful light. Then another light fifty yards from the first. The others wondered about this, but not for long. As night enveloped them the lights were inundated by swarms of insects of extraordinary size and variety—most of which would otherwise have chosen them for company.

  “Your netting, everyone. Use it generously,” Viejo told them.

  Wayne gestured at the lights. “They seem to be doing a pretty good job, colonel. Looks like we won’t need the nets.”

  “What about the manta blanca?” Rudy said. “Not to mention the things that crawl on you.”

  “Manta blanca? What’s that, doc?”

  “You’ll see. It means white blanket.”

  “Blanket?”

  He found out soon enough, and by then he was wrapping himself furiously in his netting and burrowing within his bedroll. The manta blanca was there, all right—a white blanket of small, aggressive, persistent gnats. So many they seemed to be a fog in the air, and found the chemicals and odors of the living bodies far more attractive than the lights.

  It was a rotten night.

  The morning was little better. They awoke to find their netting and bedrolls—and themselves—covered with hundreds of small green, gold-striped tree frogs. They were everywhere, staring at them before their noses, swarming on their equipment, not readily discouraged by sound or movement. Despite their unwelcome guests, Viejo insisted on a full breakfast of rations before they broke camp.

  To their relief they worked out of the tangled matting by early afternoon. Their altitude was thousands of feet lower than it had been on the Chalhuanca, but they were still more than eight thousand feet above sea level and the constant energy drain on their bodies brought weariness through muscles and bone. It was with enormous relief that they saw before them several miles of relatively clear ground. But this was still almost unknown jungle or grassy country at high altitude. They had moved no more than a hundred yards into the grass when they discovered that the edges of the high grass were saw-toothed like knives, and slashed as badly. Bloody nicks and cuts stopped them. The men hacked out a clearing to rest while they considered their latest obstacle.

  The matchetes proved wearying to the strongest of them—the rubbery grass fibers blunted the whistling metal. More even than the thick jungle, the high grass fields were draining away their energy. Again they broke their trail, looking back on the snakelike path they had hacked to get this far, falling exhausted, their bodies soaked with sweat and chilled almost as quickly by the thin, still-cold air about them.

  In these Peruvian highlands insects—especially huge moths and butterflies—had an incredible scent, and liking for salt, wh
ich now lay thick, caked and inviting, on their skins and embedded in their clothing. The fluttering winged creatures came in hordes, brought unerringly to their presence by the scent of salt on the unceasing winds. Netting about their faces kept the buzzing insects from clogging their mouths and noses and ears, but they knew that staying here could be their undoing. They were huddled together in their misery, and Steve knew that what the jungle had failed to do, the tall cutting grass and insects could accomplish—destroy their hope of being able to go on. He wrapped netting about himself, honed his machete and decided it was time to take chances. Viejo already suspected something, as perhaps did some of the others. So—

  He stepped forward, the machete clamped in his bionics fist. No longer did he hold back, measuring the swings so they would appear normal, or shifting from his bionics limb to his right, natural arm. The bionics arm became what it had been designed to be—an instrument of enormous strength and durability. The machete slashed from left to right, a near blur. Grass flew in a cloud of its own as Steve started moving and never slackened his pace. The others—all except Rudy Wells, who now most especially understood why Goldman had insisted Steve Austin take this mission—merely stared into a blizzard of grass cuttings.

  Dr. Yavari shook his head in disbelief, turned to the only man in their group who seemed unimpressed by what was happening. “Doctor Wells . . . ?”

  “I’m going to ask all of you a favor,” Rudy said. “Don’t ask me any further questions because I know the answers. And whatever happens, please do not ask him.”

  They stared after Steve, already more than two hundred yards ahead of them, moving at a seemingly inexorable pace. No one spoke. They picked up their gear, almost able to ignore the clouds of insects about them, and began to follow in a long broken line. Rudy Wells brought up the rear of the procession. They marched for another hour as Steve slashed a way through the grass that had threatened to choke off their hopes. For a while Carla stayed close to Steve, studying the man as he went through his incredible performance. At first she had thought his slashing labors were effortless, but as she caught a side view of his body she saw the perspiration staining his clothing, the gleam of wetness on his face. He was soaked through. She managed a closer look, caught her breath as she saw the telltale signs of red along the side of his face and his neck. Saw-toothed grass edges slashed by the machete were tiny razors; as they flew or were tossed back by the wind they took nicks of skin from his face and neck. He at least bleeds, Carla thought, wondering all the more as he fought through the stubborn defenses of the high plateau. Carla edged back slowly through the group until finally she was with Rudy. For a while she walked with him, silent, glancing at him. Finally, she had to ask.

  “Dr. Wells . . .”

  He understood her question, of course. He would have to ask her to take it on faith that for now there could be no answer.

  CHAPTER 15

  On the fourth day they thought Aaron Mueller would die.

  They were a day or two from Temple Mountain. Their rations were starting to run low, and Viejo worried about their condition if they should be caught without food. Small, two-toed deer had eluded them for two days running, until Viejo finally managed to flush one of the animals. Rudy Wells snapped two quick shots, one to the neck and the other to the head. Fresh, fire-roasted meat helped return their spirits and Viejo consented to a longer break than he would ordinarily have permitted. They barely finished their meal in time; the late afternoon brought with darkening skies and lowering temperatures a cruel storm. The rain continued without let-up for hours, soaking them in their makeshift camp, turning the ground beneath into a quagmire. And then the hail began. Hailstones the size of marbles at first, growing larger and larger, until in desperation they burrowed beneath their packs and equipment to keep from being pounded to death. It was the first time, as they scurried to escape the rocky barrage, that Carla Yavari found herself alone with Steve. No time to look for her father. Steve made a protecting mound of their gear and they huddled together, she in his arms, as the storm raged about them and the world went crazy with icy shrapnel from the heavens. She was asleep, exhausted physically and emotionally, when the hailstorm finally passed them by. They did not move for the rest of the night.

  In the morning their goal was a succession of ledges that formed the beginning of the upslope leading directly to Temple Mountain. From this point on the going would be slower, although their morale was improved by the sight of their objective so close before them.

  Steve looked them over. None would have survived the journey if the distance had been greater. Their clothing, his included, was torn and in many places already rotted from the combination of use, dampness, and tearing by grass and foliage. Boots were shreds, held together with tape and rope. The men had not shaved—except for Viejo, who would, it seemed, take the time and effort on a journey to hell itself. They suffered from skin rot, chafing, and only the careful ministrations of Rudy Wells had prevented outbreaks of worse disorders that could have crippled them. Steve looked forward to the higher altitude of the mountain. They were welted from insect bites as well as their other sores, and they would find some relief in the colder temperatures of higher altitude, where they would also leave behind the tiny winged and crawling creatures that had made such a misery of their lives these past days.

  So the ledges, despite the increased drain on their physical resources, were a welcome objective—signaling also the beginning of the end of their enervating trek through the high jungle valley. Aaron Mueller had taken the lead. He was still one of the strongest in the group, determined to push on just so long as the others were able to stay with him. He had worked his way up the first ledge, secured a knotted line to a boulder and dropped it down to the others. A wise move. One man would follow Mueller, and the two on top of any steep ledge could haul up the supplies and heavy packs to enable the others to climb without such encumbrance.

  Mueller gained a shelf perhaps three hundred feet above them, a fairly steep slope but one that promised fairly easy access to the others. Rudy Wells was just starting after him, using the knotted rope both as a guide and a climbing assist, when they heard a sound that stopped them cold in their tracks—a high-pitched, furious buzz saw unlike any they’d ever known. Except Viejo and Yavari, who looked up the slope toward Mueller. Now it was clear to the others this was where the sound came from. Viejo had brought his hands, cupped, to his mouth to shout a warning when Mueller’s scream broke the morning air. They froze, saw Mueller now close to the edge, flailing his arms, still screaming.

  “Austin!” Viejo tossed a smoke grenade to him. “Get up there quickly and use this!”

  Steve shed his pack and slipped the grenade inside his shirt. He took the first sloping edge of the wall in a rush, his bionics legs pounding dirt and rock behind him. Then the rope, grasping it, running, climbing, pulling as he went up the steep rock wall. He paused only a moment at the edge, and from below they now saw the bright-orange smoke being spewed out under pressure and Steve disappearing over the edge to where Mueller must have fallen.

  “Doctor Wells, quickly,” Viejo said. “Your medical kit. Take nothing else but get up there at once.” Rudy was out of his pack, securing the kit to his body straps and starting up the slope. He climbed, scratching and bruising himself. Steve leaned over the edge.

  “Doc, get a grip on the rope and hang on!”

  Rudy gasped for air, clutched the rope with both hands, his feet twined beneath him, and felt himself jerked away from the side of the slope. He swung wildly in the air, was hauled upward like a fish on a line as Steve pulled him in. Then he was there, Steve helping him to get his balance.

  “My God, what in the name of . . .”

  Steve held out his hand—the left one, Rudy noticed gratefully. In the palm, a small wasp, its afterbody a fluorescent, dazzling green. “There must have been fifty of them,” Steve said. “He’s crazy with the pain.”

  Rudy pushed past Steve, knelt by the man twi
sted in agony. The wasp stings weren’t puffy as Rudy had expected. Where the barbs had stabbed, the skin was white with a tiny bright-red center. Rudy spoke to Mueller as he groped in his kit.

  “Aaron, can you hear me?” No answer. Rudy found what he was looking for. He’d need several shots of this if they were going to save him. Mueller flailed about like a man drowning.

  “Hold him,” Rudy ordered, as the first needle went into the chest near the heart. Mueller cried out again, not from the needle. “He’s going through more hell than even you can imagine,” Rudy said as he readied a second injection, this into the arm. “He feels like he’s on fire, and as far as his nerves are concerned, he is. He’s burning alive and—damn it, tighter, Steve.”

  “He acts like he’s blind, doc.”

  “He is.” Steve looked hard at Rudy. “If he comes out of this, he’ll get his sight back. If he doesn’t, he—”

  Mueller twisted, arching his back. Steve clamped tight, and Mueller slumped unconscious.

  “Steve, I’m winded. Quick . . . mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.”

  Steve bent to him, quickly readying Mueller and putting his mouth over that of the unconscious man. Rudy was leaning all his weight on Mueller’s chest, trying to apply a steady pressure beat to the heart. He kept it up for a minute, then leaned over and put his ear to Mueller’s chest. He tapped Steve on the shoulder and fell back, exhausted.

  “He’s got good heart action,” Rudy gasped. “He’s breathing now.”

  Steve slumped against a rock. “Nothing else to do?”

  Rudy shook his head, forcing himself to breathe in long, deep draughts of air. He was white, but Steve noticed the color returning slowly. For a few minutes Rudy didn’t answer, trying to get back his wind. “Better tell them down there,” he gestured, weakly, “that Mueller’s probably going to make it.”