Journey of the Pharaohs

by Clive Cussler

  “ROV One is on its way,” he said.

  Xandra attached the payload to the second ROV. She’d selected one of the most powerful combinations of explosives available, each forty-pound charge deploying the equivalent force of five hundred pounds of TNT. They wouldn’t do any real damage to the concrete dam, but the display would be impressive enough to warrant an all-out response from the authorities.

  “Charges set,” she told her brother. “Send number two on its way.”

  Fydor put ROV 1 on automatic pilot before taking control of its sibling. He would switch back and forth over the next few minutes, guiding first one, then the other. While he did, Xandra began easing the powerboat away from the center of the lake.

  “ROV One is approaching the dam,” he said. “I’m taking it toward the right-hand side, near to the visitor center. That should result in maximum surprise and shock.”

  “Excellent idea,” Xandra replied.

  “Releasing initial payload,” Fydor said.

  From there, Fydor directed ROV 1 to cross the face of the dam, releasing another of the explosive charges every hundred feet or so.

  “Second payload released,” he announced. Then, a minute later, “Third payload released. Sending ROV One to the bottom.”

  The plan was to dispose of the ROVs in the silt rather than retrieve them. Fydor had no wish to be traced to the machines.

  “Make it quick,” Xandra said. “I’d like to be back at the dock and leaving this place behind before the carnage begins.”

  Fydor put ROV 1 into a full nose-down dive and then switched to ROV 2. Just as he changed over, a thunderous explosion echoed across Lake Powell. He looked up to see a geyser of water erupting against the right-hand side of the Glen Canyon Dam. It rose a hundred feet above the observation causeway, spread out and then crashed back down, drenching the top of the dam, the police officers and their cars with the flashing lights.

  Fydor couldn’t see through the mist, but he imagined the police running for cover and leaving their vehicles behind.

  No sooner had the water from the first explosion subsided than the second mine hit, followed moments later by a third explosion. The water thrown up by the last blast proved to be the most impressive. It was dark in the center, filled with sediment, but white and effervescent around the edges. It looked as if a depth charge had gone off on the side of the dam.

  Both Fydor and Xandra marveled at the towers of water, but for different reasons.

  “It’s beautiful,” Fydor giggled.

  “It’s too soon,” Xandra said. “You released the charges too close to the dam.”

  “I didn’t,” Fydor insisted.

  “Why are they hitting so quickly, then?”

  “It must be the current from the open floodgates,” Fydor explained.

  “Don’t make that mistake with the next three.”

  Fydor looked offended. “I know how to do my job,” he snapped.

  Going back to his screen, Fydor directed ROV 2 on a course away from the dam. He was surprised when it didn’t respond. He moved the throttle to full power and yet found the ROV traveling backward. He soon realized the problem. “ROV Two is caught in the current.”

  He tried to guide it sideways and then turned it one hundred and eighty degrees in the other direction, but neither maneuver had any effect. The ROV had drifted too close to one of the open floodgates.

  “Get it out of there.”

  “I can’t,” Fydor replied. “It’s getting sucked into the intake tower.”

  “Brother!”

  “I’m losing it,” Fydor said desperately.

  He made one more attempt to change the depth and direction, but then the ROV was gone.

  It had been drawn down into the bypass channel as it gulped massive amounts of water.

  Unlike the two tunnels devoted to generating power, the bypass tunnel was simply designed to take as much water as possible from one side of the dam to the other. The slope inside was steep, the pipeline tracking downward through the dam and then off to the side. There were no turbines in the way to slow anything down. The path took the water through part of the dam and then around it, out through the edge of the sandstone cliffs and down, where it traveled past the power plant before being dumped back into the river on the other side of the dam.

  Entering the bypass channel, the water accelerated rapidly, twisting as it went down. That spiraling action kept the ROV and its charges from impacting the wall—at least until they reached the bottom.

  There, the ROV crashed into a baffle designed to control water flow at lower rates. The three explosives made contact a fraction of a second apart, detonating almost simultaneously. The proximity of the explosions served to amplify their combined destructive power, with each detonation magnifying the effect of the previous one.

  Because the tunnel was completely filled with water, the entire force of the explosions was transferred to the surrounding enclosure. The sixty-year-old tunnel was not up to the task of resisting such a force. The walls cracked and fractured, allowing the high-pressure water to get at the sandstone beyond, which immediately started to erode.

  Water blasted through every tiny pore of the rock, finding and widening every microscopic fissure. The dam had always taken on water from the sandstone around it—one of the ironies of building a concrete structure amid porous rock—but now it would experience an internal flood.

  * * *

  —

  Watching from a spot in the visitor center, the Director of Water Operations gazed in horror at the watery explosions erupting outside. As rumblings from a deeper impact shook the dam, he lifted a phone.

  “Get me the Director of Homeland Security,” he said. “Glen Canyon Dam is under terrorist attack.”

  Chapter 60

  Treasure Cave, Silver Box Ravine, Navajo Nation, Arizona

  Kurt didn’t know about the attack on the Glen Canyon Dam or the superintendent’s call to the Director of Homeland Security. Nor could he know how quickly and completely it would bring about action.

  Within minutes of the message reaching Washington, orders went out to the FBI, the Arizona National Guard, the Coconino County Sheriff’s Office and—in what felt like an incredible stroke of good luck to the Director of Homeland Security—a twenty-man squad of counterterrorist Army Rangers who were cooling their heels at Camp Navajo in Flagstaff, only a thirty-minute flight from the dam.

  The Rangers were already on alert, sitting in their Black Hawks, armed and ready to go. They were airborne and racing toward the dam less than sixty seconds after the call came in, leaving Kurt and his group to fend for themselves.

  Morgan summed it up. “If Barlow’s not bluffing, this could be a long afternoon.”

  She and Kurt were huddled behind an outcropping of rock that stuck up from the cave’s floor. The sloped protrusion of sandstone was no more than three feet tall and four feet wide. They crouched behind it, pressed against each other back-to-back.

  Kurt watched the depths of the cavern, hoping for a shot at Barlow, while Morgan watched the tunnel that led in from the outside, hoping Barlow and Robson’s men didn’t charge.

  With so little cover and enemies on both sides, they were in the most precarious position of anyone.

  “I don’t think he’s bluffing,” Kurt said. “We’re going to have to do this ourselves.”

  His first step was to up the war of words. Turning his head, he shouted, “Anyone who wants to live a long, prison-free life can run on out of here now. We only want Barlow. The rest of you can head for the hills, we won’t stop you.”

  The next shout came from across the cave. It was Robson. “Any of you bloody fools leave and I’ll kill you myself when I get out of here.”

  Silence followed.

  “Not hearing a stampede to the exit,” Morgan said.

  “Not even
a measured retreat,” Kurt said. “We need a way to instill some uncertainty in these men.”

  “What if we shoot out the lights?” Morgan suggested. “If they can’t see us, they won’t know where we are.”

  “You realize we won’t be able to see them either, right?”

  “We’ve been in here for hours,” she said. “They just came in from the blinding glare out in the canyon. They’ll find it hard to see anything but green spots for a while.”

  She shifted her weight, leaned against the rock and fired off three quick shots. The bullets from her 9mm Beretta tore into the portable light that sat beside the southern wall.

  The first bullet ripped through the light’s plastic housing and flew out the other side without damaging anything, but the second and third bullets hit the battery pack and the controls that regulated the brightness. The light flared and went out.

  “One down, one to go,” she said.

  Kurt saw a method to the madness. And without a better plan to lean on, he jumped on the bandwagon. “Good point. Cover me.”

  Morgan fired toward the front, forcing Barlow’s men to duck. From there, she swung her aim toward the back and fired in the direction of Barlow, Robson and Professor Cross.

  As she kept them pinned down, Kurt slid out from behind the rock until he could get a bead on the second lighting unit. He fired twice. The first shot from the Colt hit the casing dead center, knocking it over and shutting it down. The second went through the battery pack.

  The cave fell into near-total darkness, with the crashed ATV and a few discarded flashlights the only remaining illumination.

  “Let the hunting begin,” Kurt called out.

  * * *

  —

  Professor Cross had fought to remain calm, but sitting in the darkness and hearing the threats go back and forth was too much for him. He didn’t belong there and he knew it. He pulled on Robson’s sleeve. “I say we run for it. Go now while it’s dark.”

  Robson pushed him away. “Get off me.”

  “Your men can cover us,” the professor urged. “They can shoot at Austin and Manning while we run to freedom.”

  “More likely, shoot us by mistake,” Robson insisted. “Now, sit tight.”

  Realizing he was getting nowhere with Robson, the professor appealed to Barlow. “Have your men attack. Order them to rush forward and take their chances.”

  Barlow stared blindly into the cave. It was completely dark except for a narrow beam of light at the center of the cave where one headlight of the crashed ATV still shone. Philosophically, he found himself agreeing with the professor, but to charge forward was suicide. He wouldn’t do it himself and he wouldn’t order his men to do it. But he could send the professor.

  “You rush them,” Barlow said.

  “What?”

  “You’re so eager to attack,” Barlow said, “why don’t you take the lead?”

  “But I’m unarmed,” the professor cried. “They’ll shoot me if I go out there.”

  “If you’re lucky, they’ll miss,” Barlow said, “but I won’t.” He aimed his pistol toward Professor Cross as he spoke.

  Cross froze in place, his heart pounding inside his chest. When Barlow cocked the hammer, he knew it was over.

  “Go!” Barlow shouted.

  Professor Cross stumbled from the hiding spot, tripping over a relic and nearly losing his feet. Regaining his balance, he kept going and charged across the room. Maybe if he could speak to Morgan . . .

  He tripped again, going face-first into the collection of Egyptian artifacts. They tumbled around him like bowling pins.

  He stayed down, switching the headlamp off and lying flat, as gunfire erupted above him. Barlow and Robson were shooting in one direction, Kurt and Morgan were shooting back. The others joined in from the entrance. The muzzle flashes were terrifying, the noise of each discharged weapon startlingly loud in the confines of the cave.

  Professor Cross covered his head and began to crawl, moving off to the side, trying to get out of the line of fire. He worked his way deeper into the treasure pile, pushing past and underneath things, slithering along like a snake.

  He came to a stop beside a crouching Anubis. Its sleek jackal’s body looked relaxed, its tall, pointed ears standing proud. The professor patted its head for reassurance and accidentally broke off one of the ears. Holding the broken piece up, he studied it in the dim light. He noticed writing printed on the inside. The words were folded and twisted, but they weren’t hieroglyphics or ancient Greek. They were modern English. The print was faint, but Professor Cross could have sworn it was old newspaper copy.

  “What is this?” he said to himself. He reached for Anubis’s other ear and accidentally snapped off the jackal’s entire head. Anger rose inside him. He smashed the head to the ground and picked up the largest pieces, studying the inside. The words on the inside were newsprint. And the flaky plaster underneath unmistakable. “Papier-mâché?”

  The professor’s head spun, he felt dizzy. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  He threw the rest of the statue of Anubis to the ground and it shattered upon impact. A second statue suffered a similar fate. A third he kicked, putting his foot through its torso.

  He pushed the pieces away and waded through the treasure trove. In his rage, he’d forgotten all about the battle and the flying bullets. He knocked things over and shoved them aside, moving objects that should have weighed hundreds of pounds without much effort at all.

  They were hollow, constructed of papier-mâché and plaster, balsa wood or tin. He found nothing made of stone, no solid gold.

  He pushed an eight-foot statue of Osiris to the ground, picked up a hieroglyphics panel that was made of plywood coated with crumbling stucco. Flinging the panel away, he revealed the latest surprise—a tall, three-drawer filing cabinet. It would have fit well in the office of Sam Spade.

  Grabbing the top handle, Professor Cross opened the first drawer violently, all but yanking it off its rails. The drawer was filled with invoices, instructions and memos.

  He pulled open the second drawer, discovering a stack of bound folders. Grabbing one from the top, he studied the front page.

  The paper was entirely white. Whatever had been written there had faded completely. He turned the page and found the ink on the inner pages in better condition. Foolishly, he switched his headlamp back on. A bullet pierced his back before he could read a single word.

  He dropped to the ground, feeling a burning sensation in his body. With great effort, he turned sideways and propped himself up, sitting with his back against the wall. He coughed up some blood and felt the slick feeling of it trickling down the side of his mouth.

  With his life force ebbing away, he glanced down at the bound page in front of him. The lamp illuminated the header at the top of the page. It read Shooting Script / Journey of the Pharaohs / A Cecil B. DeMille Production.

  Chapter 61

  Joe watched Kurt and Morgan shooting out the lights and immediately understood what his best friend had in mind.

  Gamay was more confused. “Why would they blow out the lights?”

  “Putting the pressure on,” Joe said. “Someone has to crack and Kurt’s betting on those men nearest the exit.”

  Joe, Paul and Gamay had remained out of the battle so far, mostly acting to keep Barlow’s men from rushing and overrunning Kurt and Morgan.

  “The darkness plays into our hands,” Joe said. “Time for us to take the offensive.”

  “I’m all for aggressive action,” Paul said, “but we’ll be shot to pieces as soon as we come out from behind this car.”

  “Then we won’t come out from behind it,” Joe said. “We’ll push it in front of us and use it as a shield.”

  “You’ll need someone to drive,” Gamay said.

  “Get in,” Joe said. “Paul and I will provide the
power. All we have to do is get it pointed toward the entrance and rolling down that ramp. Once it picks up enough speed, we’ll hop on the running boards and ride it down like proper gangsters.”

  Gamay climbed into the two-seater Kissel, fitting snugly in the small compartment. She placed her gun down on the passenger seat and released the brake. “Ready.”

  Joe moved into position at the back of the antique car. Paul lined up next to him. They found excellent handholds on the trunk-mounted spare tire and rear fenders.

  “This thing is a classic,” Paul said. “I’ve seen cars like this in Dirk’s collection.”

  “Assuming we live long enough, we can give it to him for Christmas,” Joe said. “Hopefully, he won’t mind a few holes.”

  Rocking the Kissel back and forth, they got it moving. The motion allowed Gamay to turn the wooden steering wheel.

  “A little more to the left,” Joe insisted. “We need to go down the ramp, not off the edge.”

  “I’m trying,” Gamay said. “This thing isn’t equipped with power steering.”

  As Gamay strained to turn the wheel, Joe and Paul pulled the Kissel back toward themselves and then pushed forward once more, this time lowering their shoulders and putting their entire bodies into the effort.

  The car turned onto the ramp, the front wheels taking the slope. As soon as the weight of the car shifted, it began to pick up speed.

  Joe and Paul kept pushing, their feet digging in as they shoved the car. The Kissel surged toward the tunnel and the exit to the cave, heading toward daylight for the first time in a hundred years.

  Going down the ramp, Joe could barely keep up with the car. He sprinted and leapt onto the side board, latching onto the door, before the car got away. Holding on tight as the Kissel rolled toward the tunnel entrance, he took what protection he could from the bodywork while raising the MP7 and firing over the front fender.

  Paul was doing the same thing on the other side of the car. But as the incoming fire was shattering the windshield, he lost his grip and jumped off.