Lost Empire

by Cussler, Clive;Grant Blackwood

  Sam began lowering himself again. Under the weight of the layers above, the mixture here had become more and more compressed until finally, at the ten-foot mark, the color morphed again, from gray to brown to black.

  Sam stopped suddenly. He felt his heart lurch. He turned his head sideways, trying to aim the headlamp’s beam at what had caught his eye. He found it again, then braced his feet against the shaft’s sides to steady himself.

  “I’ve got timber!” he called.

  There were several seconds of silence, then Remi’s faint voice: “I’m dumbfounded, Sam. Describe it.”

  “It’s a horizontal piece about three inches thick. I can see eight to ten inches of it.”

  “Three inches thick is too thin to be the spar deck. Could it be the deckhouse roof? The only other raised structures were the stack, the engine-room skylight, the wardroom skylight, and the wheelhouse. Do you see any traces of glass?”

  “No. I’m moving on.”

  Again he reached the bottom of his excavation. They evacuated more debris, then he kicked out his toeholds and went to work with the stick. On his first strike, he heard the solid thunk of wood on wood. He did it again with the same result. He dug out the remainder of the shaft, then craned his neck downward, illuminating the bottom with his headlamp.

  “I’ve got decking,” he shouted.

  HE LOWERED HIMSELF until his feet touched the deck. The wood creaked and bowed under his weight. After shoving debris to one side with his boot, he slammed his heel down and got a satisfying crack in reply. A dozen more stomps opened a ragged two-foot hole. The rest of the detritus plunged through the opening.

  “I’m going through.”

  Hand over hand, he lowered himself through the deck. The light from the surface receded and faded, leaving him suspended in the glow of his headlamp. His feet touched a hard surface. He tested his weight on it. It was solid. Cautiously, he released the rope.

  “I’m down,” he called. “Looks okay.”

  “I’m on my way,” Remi replied.

  Two minutes later she was beside him. She clicked on her headlamp and illuminated the hole above their heads. “That has to be the deckhouse roof.”

  “Which would make this the berth deck,” said Sam.

  And a tomb, they quickly realized, panning their beams around the space. Running down each side of the space at sporadic intervals were twenty or so hammocks hanging from the overhead. All of the hammocks were occupied. The remains were mostly skeletal, save patches of desiccated flesh on whatever body parts weren’t covered in clothing.

  “It’s like they simply lay down and waited to die,” said Remi.

  “That’s probably accurate,” Sam replied. “Once the ship was buried, they had three choices: suffocation, starvation, or suicide. Let’s move on. You choose.”

  The only blueprints they’d seen for the ship had come from the original shipbuilder; they had no idea what, if any, changes either the Sultan of Zanzibar or Blaylock might have made to the interior layout. This berth deck seemed close to the original, but what about the rest of the ship?

  Remi chose forward and started walking. The deck was almost pristine. Had they not come in the way they had, it would’ve been impossible to tell they were under fourteen feet of earth.

  “Has to be the lack of oxygen,” Remi said. “It’s been hermetically sealed for a hundred thirty years.”

  Their beams swept over a wooden column blocking their path.

  “The foremast?” Remi asked.

  “Yes.”

  On the other side of this they found a bulkhead and two steps leading up into what had once been the petty officers’ quarters; it had since been turned into a storage compartment for timber and sailcloth.

  “Let’s head aft,” Sam said. “Providing Blaylock wasn’t on deck when they got hit, I’m guessing he’d be in either the wardroom or his quarters.”

  “I agree.”

  “As much as I’d love to explore, I think this is one of those ‘discretion equals valor’ moments.”

  Remi nodded. “This will take a full archaeological team and years of work.”

  They walked aft, their footfalls clicking dully on the deck and their murmured voices echoing off the bulkheads. They stepped through the berth-deck hatch and found themselves facing another mast, this one the main; on the other side of this were a bulkhead and a ladder leading up to the main deck.

  “Dead end,” Remi said. “Unless we want to push through to the main deck and tunnel our way aft to the wardroom.”

  “Let’s call that Plan B. According to the blueprints, on the other side of this bulkhead are the coal bunkers, the upper level of the engine room, then the aft hold. The Sultan was known to deal in illicit cargo from time to time. Let’s see if he made any covert adjustments to the layout.”

  The bulkhead was six feet high and ran the width of the thirty-foot deck. Using their headlamps, Sam and Remi scanned the bulkhead from one side to the other. Directly below the spot where the ladder pierced the deck above, Remi spotted a quarter-sized indentation in one of the planks. She pressed her thumb into it and was rewarded with a snick. A hinged hatch swung downward. Sam caught it, then lowered it the rest of the way. On tiptoes, he peered into the opening.

  “A crawl space,” he said.

  “It’s heading in the right direction.”

  Sam boosted Remi through the hatch, then chinned himself up and followed. They headed aft, knees and hands bumping along the wood.

  “We’re over the coal bunkers, I think,” Sam said.

  Ten more feet, and Remi said, “Bulkhead coming up.”

  They stopped. The sound of Remi’s fingers tapping and probing the bulkhead filled the crawl space.

  Snick.

  “Eureka,” she said. “Another hatch.”

  She crawled through this opening and disappeared. Sam heard the clang of her feet hitting grated steel. He crawled to the hatch. Directly ahead was a stanchion; he grabbed it and used it to ease himself out.

  They were standing on a railed catwalk. They walked to the edge and shined their headlamps down, illuminating shadowed shapes of machinery, girders, and piping.

  They walked along the catwalk to the aft bulkhead, where they found a short ladder leading upward to yet another hatch; once through this hatch, they found themselves hunched over in the four-foot-tall aft hold.

  Sam panned his light around, trying to orient himself. “We’re directly below the wardroom. There’s got to be another—”

  “I found it,” Remi called from a few feet away.

  Sam turned to see her standing before a dangling ceiling hatch. She smiled. “Crafty devil, the Sultan,” she said. “Do you think this was for his harem?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Sam waddled over and formed stirrups with his hands. “Up you go.”

  ONCE ON THE DECK ABOVE, they found themselves standing in a thirty-foot-long corridor. At their backs was the Shenandoah’s third mast, the mizzen. Along the starboard side of the corridor were five doors. These would be officers’ quarters.

  Sam checked the first door. “The head,” he whispered.

  In turn, they checked the remaining doors. The second and third rooms were empty, but not so with the fourth and fifth. Lying faceup in each of the tiered bunk beds was a skeleton.

  “Buried alive,” Remi murmured. “My God, I wonder how long it took?”

  “However long it took, it must have been a nightmare.”

  AT THE END OF THE CORRIDOR, they turned right through another doorway and into the port-side corridor heading forward. One side was lined with more quarters. On the other, a single door led into the wardroom.

  “Do you want to look?” asked Sam.

  “Not particularly. It’ll be more of the same.”

  “One more room to check, then.”

  They turned around. A few feet aft was a thick oaken door with heavy wrought iron hinges and a matching latch handle.

  “Ca
ptain’s quarters,” Sam said.

  “My heart’s pounding.”

  “Mine too.”

  “You or me?” Remi asked.

  “Ladies first.”

  Sam aimed his headlamp over Remi’s shoulder, helping to illuminate her path. She stepped up to the door, placed her hand on the latch, and, after a moment’s hesitation, depressed the thumb lever and pushed. Half expecting the clichéd creak of hinges, they were surprised when the door swung noiselessly inward.

  From their research they knew the captain’s quarters aboard the Shenandoah measured eighty square feet: ten feet long by eight feet wide. Compared to the officers’ berths, and especially the enlisteds’ bunk rooms, it was luxurious.

  Sam and Remi saw him at the same time.

  Directly ahead of them, facing the four mullioned stern windows, was a rocking chair. Jutting above the chair’s headrest was a skull, bare save a few strands of whitish yellow hair and some bits of scabrous flesh.

  Remi stepped across the threshold. Sam did the same. Headlamp beams focused on the figure in the chair, they paced forward, then circled around either side of the chair.

  Winston Blaylock was dressed as they had imagined him for the past three weeks: calf-high boots, khaki pants, and a hunting jacket. Even as a skeleton, his stature was impressive: wide shoulders, long legs, barrel chest.

  His hands were lying palms up in his lap. Cradled there, staring up at Sam and Remi, was a football-sized maleo statuette, its facets sparkling green in their flashlight beams.

  WITHOUT A WORD between them, Sam gently reached down and lifted the maleo from Blaylock’s lap. They stared at the man for another full minute, then searched the cabin. They found neither a log-book nor documents, save three sheets of parchment. Blaylock’s neat scrawl covered both sides of each sheet. Remi scanned their contents.

  “Three letters to Constance,” she said.

  “Dates?” Sam asked.

  “August fourteen, August twentieth, and . . .” Remi hesitated. “The last one’s dated September sixteenth.”

  “Three weeks after the Shenandoah was buried here.”

  THEY RETRACED THEIR STEPS forward through the starboard corridor, down through the hatch, back through the engine room, and through the crawl space to the berth deck.

  Remi climbed up through their excavated shaft, waited for Sam to secure the maleo to the end of the rope, then hauled it up to the surface. She dropped the line back down, and Sam went up.

  Together, they collected an armload of twigs and small branches, then built a latticework over the shaft and covered it with loam.

  “It doesn’t seem right just leaving them down there,” Remi said.

  “We’ll come back,” Sam replied. “We’ll make sure that he’s taken care of—that they’re all taken care of.”

  EACH LOST IN HIS or her private thoughts, the climb back up to the plateau passed quickly. Three hours after leaving the Shenandoah they were picking their way down the trail Sam had hacked. Remi was in the lead. Through the trees Sam glimpsed the white sand of the beach.

  Their pinisi was gone.

  “Remi, stop,” Sam rasped.

  On instinct, he shrugged off his pack, unzipped the top pocket, grabbed the maleo, and tossed it into the brush. He donned his pack again and kept walking.

  “What is it?” Remi replied, turning around. She saw the expression on her husband’s face. She stiffened. “What’s going on?” she whispered.

  From somewhere to the right, hidden in the trees, came Itzli Rivera’s voice: “It’s called an ambush, Mrs. Fargo.”

  “STEP BACKWARD,” Rivera ordered. “Five more feet, and you’re on the sand. Mr. Fargo, there’s a rifle trained on your wife. One more step, Mrs. Fargo.”

  Remi complied.

  “Drop your pack.”

  Remi did so.

  “Now you come forward, Mr. Fargo. Hands up.”

  Sam walked down the trail and stepped onto the beach. To the right, Rivera stepped from the trees. To the left, another man, armed with an assault rifle, did the same. Rivera lifted a portable radio to his mouth and said something. Ten seconds later a speedboat glided around the peninsula and into the cove. Six feet from the beach, it stopped. On board were two more men, also armed with assault rifles.

  “Did you find her?” Rivera asked.

  Sam saw no point in lying. “Yes.”

  “Was Blaylock aboard?”

  “Yes.”

  Sam and Remi’s eyes locked. Each one was expecting the same question to come next.

  Rivera said, “Did you find anything interesting?”

  “Three letters.”

  In Spanish, Rivera barked, “Search them,” to the man behind Sam and Remi. He came forward, snagged each of their packs, and dragged them ten feet away. He searched each pack and found their iPhones and their satellite phone. He crushed each one under the butt of his rifle, then kicked the pieces into the water. Finally, he frisked Sam and Remi.

  “Nothing,” the man reported to Rivera. “Just the letters.”

  “You can have them,” Rivera said. “In trade, I’m going to take your wife.”

  “The hell you are.” Sam took a step toward Rivera.

  “Sam, don’t!” Remi shouted.

  The man behind Sam rushed forward and slammed the butt of his rifle into Sam’s lower back just above the kidneys. Sam stumbled forward, dropped to his knees, then climbed back to his feet.

  Sam took a calming breath. “Rivera, you can—”

  “Take you instead? No thank you.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cell phone, and tossed it to Sam. “It’s prepaid and untraceable, with three minutes of talk time left. You’ve got twenty-four hours to determine the location of Chicomoztoc.”

  “That’s not enough time.”

  “That’s your problem to solve. When you’ve got the location, dial star six-nine on that phone. I’ll answer. At twenty-four hours and one minute, I’ll kill your wife.”

  Sam turned around to face Remi.

  He said, “Everything’s going to be okay, Remi.”

  She forced a smile. “I know.”

  Rivera ordered, “Take her.”

  At gunpoint, Remi was marched into the water to the boat. The two men aboard lifted her over the gunwale and shoved her down into one of the rear seats.

  Sam turned back to Rivera, who said, “Do I have to tell you not to involve the police or any of that nonsense?”

  “No.”

  “Your boat is anchored on the other side of the peninsula.”

  “I’ll hunt you down.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you hurt her, I’ll spend the rest of my life and every penny to hunt you down.”

  Rivera smiled thinly. “I believe you’d try.”

  CHAPTER 45

  TWENTY-TWO HOURS LATER,

  SOUTHERN SULAWESI

  SAM’S EYES SCANNED THE GAUGES, CHECKING AIRSPEED, ALTITUDE, oil pressure, fuel . . . As was everything else aboard the airplane, the few dashboard labels that hadn’t worn off completely were in Serbian.

  The Ikarus Kurir seaplane, painted an ugly shade of gray-blue, was sixty years old, a castoff from the Yugoslavian air force. The windows leaked, the engine knocked, the wheeled pontoons were badly dented, and the controls were so soft there was a two-second delay between the time he pushed the pedals and the plane responded.

  He’d never been happier with a plane in his life.

  A thousand miles east of Jakarta, the Ikarus had been the only seaplane available for rent, purchase, or theft—and, provided he didn’t crash in the next hour, it would take him to Remi. Whether they stayed alive over the next few hours or days would depend largely on the credibility of the Hail Mary pass he and Selma had assembled.

  AS SOON AS Rivera’s speedboat had disappeared from view, Sam had retrieved the maleo statuette, grabbed his pack, and sorted through their belongings, taking only the essentials. Blaylock’s letters went into a Ziploc baggie. The swim ba
ck to the pinisi took just under seven minutes; the boat ride to the nearest civilization on the eastern coast of Lampung Bay, an excruciating ninety minutes. Once ashore and off the beach, he jogged a mile down a dirt road to a collection of Quonset huts on the outskirts of an industrial farm. He talked his way into the plant office and to a phone and called Selma, who listened, then said, “It’s not enough time.”

  “I know that. It’s all we have.”

  “Should we call Rube?”

  “No. There’s nothing he can do in time. Have Pete and Wendy get me back to Jakarta.”

  “On it.”

  “Now, tell me where things stand. What do we know?”

  “Virtually nothing.”

  FIVE HOURS AFTER he left Pulau Legundi, Sam touched down in Jakarta. He checked into the closest hotel with a Wi-Fi connection and a laptop to rent, then resumed his call with Selma.

  “I don’t care if we’re right about the location,” Sam said. “I just need to be able to sell it to Rivera and convince him we have to meet.”

  “I could create evidence. Wendy could Photoshop something—”

  “As a last resort.” Sam checked his watch. “We’re going to take six hours and work every angle we have. If we don’t get anywhere, we’ll go with your plan. Let’s run through it: Orizaga wandered off, presumably looking for Chicomoztoc. Did he stay on Sumatra?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Both he and Blaylock were focused on the maleo. Orizaga said he’d know Chicomoztoc when he found a ‘hatchery of great birds.’ He had to have meant the maleo, agreed?”

  “It seems likely.”

  “Where are they found?”

  “They’re on the endangered species list. They’re limited to Sulawesi and Buton islands.”

  “How about five hundred years ago?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have Pete and Wendy put together a list of maleo experts.”

  “We don’t even know if there is such a thing.”