Journey of the Pharaohs

by Clive Cussler

  He handed the binoculars to Morgan. “Definitely Barlow’s people,” she said. “I recognize the man in the middle. He’s a mercenary named Kappa.”

  “What about the others?”

  “No one stands out,” she said. “But they’re all cut from the same cloth.”

  She handed the binoculars to Joe, who noticed a serious lack of energy in the group. “Too bad they’re not working at the moment,” he said. “It would be a lot easier to sneak up on them if they were still digging with their backs to us.”

  “Maybe they’re taking a break,” Kurt said.

  Joe watched as one man tilted a bottle up high, attempting to get every last drop of water from it, before tossing it aside. A second man was stretched out on the ground in the shade. The third man stood beside Kappa, who had a radio in his hands. At their feet was a red nylon duffel bag with two straps for handles.

  “Not break time,” Joe said, “quitting time. Take a look at the bag. Ten will get you twenty that it’s filled with the stone fragments we came here to find.”

  Kurt took the binoculars back and trained them on the duffel. He watched as the biggest member of the crew heaved it from the ground and over his shoulder and carried it to higher terrain. The bag’s straps tensed with the load and after hauling it about twenty yards the big man laid it down and rubbed his shoulder.

  Looking around, Kurt spotted the horses and the mule. They were tied up to a twisted canyon oak about forty feet downslope from where the men stood. The horses were chewing on the oak’s leaves. The mule stood by like a statue.

  “We could ambush them when they ride out,” Morgan suggested.

  Kurt focused on the man whom Morgan had called Kappa. He was shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed into the distance. “They’re not riding out,” Kurt said, “they’re flying. And, by the look of it, they’re expecting to make a departure any minute now.”

  Morgan looked at the setup. The duffel bag had been dragged to roughly the center of the narrow canyon. The walls on either side were no more than fifty feet away. Their sheer cliffs rose two hundred feet, widening slightly near the top. She turned to Joe. “Would you fly a helicopter into this?”

  “Nope,” Joe said. “But they could always drop a bucket,” he added, suggesting the only sane method of airlifting something out of the narrow gorge.

  Kurt tilted his head and listened, picking up the unmistakable sound of an approaching helicopter. It was hollow and distant at first, the sound waves echoing off the walls in a ghostly manner, but it grew stronger with each passing second.

  “Sounds like their ride is here,” Joe said. “We need to hurry if we’re going to delay their departure.”

  Chapter 35

  Aircraft wreck site, Falcon Point

  Kappa listened as the helicopter approached. He was tired, covered in sweat from excavating the plane, and sore from head to toe. When he called the extraction team, he let it show. “It’s about time,” he said, holding down the TALK switch on his radio. “We’ve been out here all day. We’re tired of waiting.”

  “We’ve had some trouble finding you. The directions were very poor.”

  Kappa recognized Robson’s voice as it came through the small speaker. Not a word of the apology sounded remotely sincere.

  “We’ll be overhead in a moment. Get your men ready.”

  “We’re ready now,” Kappa snapped.

  Despite the fact that Robson had discovered the link to the aircraft and the wreck’s location near San Sebastián, it was Kappa who’d been given the job of traveling here and digging the ancient plane out of the ground.

  A booby prize, if ever Kappa had heard of one.

  Still, it would all be worth it if he could personally hand the hieroglyphics-covered stones to Barlow.

  Kappa pulled the radio away from his face and whistled to his men. “Let’s go.”

  The others were tired and sore as well, but the arrival of the extraction team gave them some energy. They jumped to their feet and gathered around Kappa, gazing upward, waiting for the helicopter to appear.

  When it finally showed up, it moved cautiously into position, adjusting its heading for the breeze and then holding station almost directly above them.

  “Finally,” one of the men said.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Kappa said. He raised the walkie-talkie. “You’re in position. Lower the stretcher.”

  The side door of the helicopter slid open and locked. Kappa saw Robson swinging a rescue basket into place. The basket, in fact, was a thin, rectangular stretcher. It dropped toward them on a metal cable. Despite a secondary guideline to prevent the stretcher from spinning, it rocked back and forth in the downwash from the helicopter, twisting as it descended.

  “It’s going to be a bumpy ride up,” someone said.

  Kappa knew it would take at least two trips to haul himself and the stone-filled duffel bag and then the rest of his men up to the helicopter. Probably three. He was eager to get started. He pressed the TALK switch on the radio. “You’re a little off to the west side. Straighten up and keep it coming.”

  The response couldn’t have been more surprising. Robson’s voice sounded panicked. “Kappa, you have targets approaching. Three intruders, forty meters from your position.”

  Kappa’s first thought was that Robson was playing a juvenile trick on him, trying to get him to flinch, but then one of his men spotted movement and opened fire. Return fire came thundering back and Kappa dove for cover just as all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 36

  Kurt, Joe and Morgan had made it halfway to the wreck site before being spotted from the helicopter. Keeping his eyes on Kappa as they approached, Kurt noticed the sudden tension in his face as the radio warning came in. He knew instantly.

  “Get down,” he shouted.

  Joe and Morgan heard the warning and scattered, finding safety just as Kappa’s men began peppering the canyon with automatic weapons fire.

  “I knew the peace and quiet was too good to last,” Joe shouted, firing back.

  Kurt surveyed the battlefield. With the chopper hovering overhead and the rescue basket nearing the ground, Kappa and his men had dropped into protected positions and were firing downhill at them. Kurt chose to look on the bright side. “The good news is, they can’t load up without taking their eyes off us.”

  Morgan saw it the other way. “The bad news is, we can’t move anywhere until they do just that.”

  “I’ve got worse news for the both of you,” Joe said. “There are four of them. They can divide and conquer, with two of them pinning us down and two of them loading the stones into the basket.”

  “Pessimists,” Kurt said. “I’m working with pessimists.”

  Kurt moved from one covered spot to another in order to get a better view of the terrain. He saw Kappa reaching for the swaying stretcher while his men poured on the fire.

  From the tiny explosions of dirt kicked up by the flying bullets, Kurt could tell that Joe and Morgan had been targeted. Taking advantage of that, he moved into a firing position, sighted the most lethally armed of Kappa’s men and pulled the trigger on his .45 caliber Colt 1911.

  The man jerked to the side as Kurt’s shot hit home. He fell, losing his grip on his rifle as he hit the ground.

  Kurt ducked back behind a pile of rocks as the gunfire swung in his direction. Several near misses whistled past, others skipped off the granite around them.

  Needing a new position, Kurt dropped flat to the ground and army-crawled to where Joe and Morgan had taken cover. They were near the center of the gorge with their backs to a fallen tree that stretched across the dry riverbed. Its bark was long gone, its trunk bleached white from the sun, but it was thick enough and solid enough to keep the bullets away.

  Morgan glanced at the helicopter. “We’ll be in real trouble if someone starts shoo
ting from the door of that thing. It’s not a great angle, but I’d be happier if that helicopter was out of the fight.”

  Joe shook his head. “If we bring that thing down in this small of a space, we’ll end up doused with burning jet fuel and riddled with shrapnel.”

  “Forget about the helicopter,” Kurt said. “If they had a sniper, he’d be firing at us already. Considering they’re planning to fly four men and several hundred pounds of rock out of here, they wouldn’t come in with extra men on board. Two pilots and one crewman—tops. That means they have their hands full working the basket and keeping the chopper in place. Our best bet is to take out Kappa and the rest of the ground crew. If we do that, the pilot of that bird will turn tail and run.”

  Morgan pulled a small disk from her pocket.

  “Top secret spy gadget?” Joe asked hopefully.

  “Not exactly.” With a flip of her thumb, Morgan opened the disk, revealing a reservoir of makeup in the bottom section and a circular mirror in the top.

  “This is no time for a touch-up,” Kurt joked.

  “A woman has to look her best,” Morgan said, “and see her best.”

  She held the compact up, using the mirror like a periscope, studying their foes without exposing herself to gunfire. “They’re still up on the flat area. Kappa’s in the middle. He’s got one guy on either side of him. Looks like he’s going for the duffel bag.”

  Before she could confirm that, a well-aimed shot took the compact out of her grasp. She shook her hand and rubbed her fingers. “That cost fifty pounds at Marks & Spencer.”

  “We need to move,” Kurt said.

  “Considering one of them just shot a three-inch disk out of my hand, I vote against a frontal assault,” Morgan said.

  “I second that,” Joe said.

  Kurt’s vote made it unanimous, but he had another plan. “You ever get hit with a ricocheting bullet?”

  “Yes,” Joe said. “Hurts bad enough. But it’s not going to put anyone out of action.”

  “Turns you around, though.” The gleam in Kurt’s eye was unmistakable. He pointed to the canyon walls. They were flat, smooth granite, with no more than a foot of debris piled in a slope at the bottom.

  “That it does,” Joe agreed.

  “Are you two trying to hit these men with bank shots?” Morgan asked.

  Kurt nodded. “And when we do, they’ll think we’ve flanked them. They’ll adjust their aim to either side, leaving you open to fire right down the middle.”

  Morgan marveled at how casually Kurt threw out the idea. “Tell me you have another idea.”

  “We could let them get away.”

  She laughed at that. “Frontal assault it is. Just say when.”

  Knowing the helicopter was directly above the men, Kurt gauged their position by its shadow. Easing back from the fallen tree and sliding over to get the proper angle, he raised his Colt and took aim.

  At the other end of the tree, Joe was easing into his own firing position. A nod from him told Kurt he was ready.

  Leaning out to the side, Kurt opened fire, watching sparks light up the canyon wall as the shells caromed off it and toward the men beneath the helicopter.

  He could hear Joe’s 9mm being discharged in the opposite direction. When a barrage of return fire lit into either side of the canyon, well wide of Kurt’s current position, he knew they’d pulled it off. “Now!”

  Morgan popped up, steadying her arms on the fallen tree and sighting Kappa’s men. In cold repose, she pulled the trigger rapidly. Three quick shots felled the mercenary on Kappa’s left, four more discharged the man on Kappa’s right. They went down—and stayed down—but by the time she zeroed in on Kappa, he’d jumped onto the rescue basket and was lying flat behind the duffel bag, using it as a shield.

  She fired at him anyway, but the stone-filled bag acted like a wall of armor. The bullets pinged off it.

  “They’ve loaded the stones on the stretcher,” she called out. “Kappa’s riding up with it.”

  Not only were Kappa and the duffel riding up, the helicopter was moving. It had quit its hovering position and was accelerating down the throat of the canyon and out toward the main branch of the river.

  Kurt saw this getaway attempt unfolding. Helpless to stop the helicopter, he did the only thing he could do, rational or otherwise. He holstered his gun, took off running and leapt toward the stretcher as it passed by.

  He caught the edge of it with both hands, hanging on as it swung wildly.

  The impact was so unexpected, it threw Kappa off balance. He almost rolled off the side of the gurney. Grasping for a handhold to prevent his falling, he dropped his pistol. It hit the duffel, tumbled over Kurt’s side and slid past.

  For a brief moment, Kurt wished he was an octopus. Extra hands would have helped him to climb up and catch Kappa’s gun as it fell. Or at least retrieve his own pistol. Instead, all he could do was hold on with his legs swinging beneath him as Kappa’s pistol dropped to the ground.

  The rescue basket stabilized as the helicopter moved down the narrow gap and out into the wider area of the riverbed. But it swung around like a carnival ride when the chopper swerved south and began to pick up speed.

  As the helicopter straightened out, Kurt pulled himself up and threw one hand forward, reaching for the corner of the duffel bag. His plan was to pull it free and toss it down, then jump to safety when the helicopter inevitably slowed and turned back, searching for its lost payload. He tugged on the duffel, but it wouldn’t budge. Kappa had secured it to the stretcher with three nylon straps, each pulled taut and locked in place with a metal tension buckle.

  Still dangling from the basket—and painfully aware of the speed picking up—Kurt reached for the first buckle, dug his fingers under its lip and lifted. It came loose. But before he could slide the strap free, Kappa crawled up over the top of the treasure-filled bag and swung at Kurt.

  The punch was an awkward lunging hook. Kurt dropped backward to avoid the blow, but that left him hanging beneath the basket once again.

  Executing another textbook pull-up, he reached for the bag a second time. This time Kappa lunged toward him with a knife in his hand.

  Kurt pulled his arm back, but the blade caught him anyway, slicing through his field jacket and into flesh. The pain was searing. But the bigger problem was, pulling his arm back so quickly had left him hanging from the basket by only one hand. Between the force of the helicopter and force of the wind, he wouldn’t remain there long.

  Instead of grabbing the stretcher again with his free hand, Kurt reached into his jacket and found the Colt in his shoulder holster. He pulled the trusty weapon free, aiming it upward, as Kappa lunged toward the hand gripping the frame of the stretcher with his knife.

  Firing a single shot, Kurt hit Kappa in the shoulder.

  The force of the bullet spun Kappa around and threw him off balance. He reached for the secondary guideline as he fell backward, but it was just beyond his grasp. With a strange look on his face, Kappa tumbled off the stretcher and vanished.

  Kurt didn’t bother to watch him hit the ground. He shoved the Colt back in its holster and grabbed the edge of the basket. With both hands, his grip was now firm, but by no means unbreakable. His left arm ached from holding on so long. His right arm bled through the gash in his jacket.

  With maximum effort, he pulled himself up and rolled onto the rescue basket. Secure and stable, Kurt took a second to savor the victory before wondering what on earth he was going to do now.

  Chapter 37

  As the helicopter cruised down the canyon, Robson crouched in the back. He had one hand on the winch control and the other firmly gripping a handhold. He gazed through the cargo door at the fiasco going on down below.

  The gurney dangled sixty feet beneath them, swinging wildly from side to side like a five-hundred-pound pendulum. With each swing, t
he cable strained and the fulcrum of the winch it was connected to groaned, the momentum so great that it was causing the helicopter to yaw and roll.

  Trying to raise the basket proved impossible. “What’s wrong with this thing?” he shouted, flipping the switch back and forth.

  “Too much weight,” the pilot shouted back. “When that guy jumped on board, it overloaded the winch. Something must have burned out.”

  Robson looked down once again just in time to see Kappa tumble off the stretcher. Much as he disliked Kappa, Robson knew it was not good news. He gave up on the winch and pulled out his pistol. “Hold us steady.”

  “I’m trying,” the pilot shouted.

  Despite the pilot’s effort, the chopper continued to slew around as if pulled by some invisible force. Straining to keep his balance, Robson aimed down with one hand while holding on with the other. The gurney swung beneath them, disappearing from view. He timed its return and fired the second it reappeared.

  Austin did the same.

  Lead bullets punched through the thin aluminum floor of the helicopter. One of them nicked the toe of Robson’s boot. Another ricocheted to one side. A third went all the way through and punched a hole in the roof above him.

  Robson dove toward the cockpit. While he assumed correctly that Kurt had no desire to bring the helicopter down, he sensed Austin wouldn’t hesitate to do so if he felt it was his only option.

  “Now what?” the pilot asked.

  “Shake him off.”

  “What about the cargo?”

  “The bag is strapped down and Austin isn’t,” Robson explained. “Shake him off.”

  “If he thinks he’s going to die, he’ll shoot us down before he goes.”

  “Not if he’s low enough to jump,” Robson said.

  The pilot said nothing more. He poured on more power and aimed for the center of the ever-widening river valley. The helicopter descended, accelerating as it went. It was soon traveling at an altitude of less than a hundred feet, with the gurney beneath them only thirty feet above the ground.