The Titicaca Effect

by Richard N. Tooker

  “Tyler, I came by to find out when you’re planning to start the bridge to the island,” Fontaine said. “The Bolivian minister of the interior has asked for our help in securing some equipment to widen the road from La Paz to Copacabana. It’s going to have to carry some major traffic when the spaceport opens.”

  “President Truesdale has volunteered the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers to supervise building the bridge, at no charge to the Bolivian government,” Freeman said. “They’re already on the site, building the dam. We haven’t talked about a schedule for the bridge yet, because we wanted to complete the dam and get the site dry first. If removing all that water from the area has some unforeseen effect on the pipe, we need to know that before we start building permanent structures in the area.”

  “What are the chances that draining the site will cause a problem?” Fontaine asked.

  “Close to zero,” Stout answered. “Nothing will change except for the fact that we’ll stop getting drenched every time it erupts, and we won’t have to dodge the falling toads. That will also make the rest of the construction activity much easier to manage. Did you ever try to build anything where there’s a daily rainstorm that dumps a million tons of water on you?”

  “Can’t say that I have. When will the dam be complete?”

  “In three weeks. On the Corps of Engineers difficulty scale, this dam is a trivial exercise. They’re building the whole thing with cement mixed with the rock graded off the island, which had to be moved anyway to level the site for the operations center. There’s a single gate that will hold the water back, and all we have to do is close it.”

  “Then we drain the site?” Freeman asked.

  “There’s no reason the drain it,” Stout replied. “Once we shut the gate, the next eruption should empty the area enclosed by the dam without our help. The water will simply fall up. My calculations say the area will empty in less than three minutes.”

  Tyler, I’d better get going,” Fontaine said. “Thaddeus, would you mind meeting me at the embassy tonight? I have a few things to wrap up myself.”

  “No problem. See you at seven o’clock,” Stout replied, smiling broadly as she left the room. He turned his attention back to Freeman. “Tyler, we’re only about a month away from the test launch. Have you signed a contract yet to produce the test device?”

  “Yeah, I gave the contract to McDonnell-Douglas. They assured me they can build it in a little less than three weeks with off-the-shelf components. It should be finished well before you’re ready to test it.”

  “I had no idea they could move that fast.”

  Freeman laughed. “Neither did they. You know how engineers are. The first thing they wanted to do was a study. Then they wanted to draw up a list of experimental requirements, build a prototype, subject it to stress tests, and then design a platform that could be expanded as our requirements escalated. It would have taken millions of dollars and months, if not years. The problem is, they’re still firmly rooted in a rocket-power mindset, where it costs ten grand a pound to put something in orbit. You have to make absolutely certain that you’re being as efficient as possible and that you get the maximum benefit out of every launch, because the turnaround time to the next launch is weeks or months, even with the space shuttle, and the hardware is incredibly expensive. I finally made my point when I told them that since all we want to know is how far and how fast an object placed in the pipe will go, it doesn’t need to be any more complicated than the original Sputnik, with the addition of some fairly powerful side thrusters to keep it in the antigravity field when it encounters high winds at altitude. Just a space-capable radio with altitude-sensing telemetry. And if it breaks, we can launch again in 24 hours at no incremental cost. So they’re building three units, just to be on the safe side.”

  Stout grinned. “The rules have changed.”

  “You bet they have,” Freeman said. “Oh, I almost forgot. Guess who the project director is?”

  “Who?”

  “Mark Roberts! Evidently, Truesdale had him fired for giving me a hard time and he turned up at McDonnell-Douglas. His first assignment is to work with us on anything we need. Apparently the brass at the company are under the mistaken impression that he and I are old friends and that having him work with us will give them a leg up on getting the contract to build the manned launch units. There’s a kind of poetic justice in having my jerk boss at the FAA assigned to keep me happy,” he said, smiling. “Life is good.

  “Speaking of the good life,” Freeman continued, looking at his watch, “I’m due at the embassy myself in a few minutes to meet Alicia. I’d better get going.” He stood up and reached for his leather jacket, which was hanging on a coat rack by the desk. “I’m going to offer her a job.”

  “Ten bucks says she takes it,” Stout laughed as Freeman locked the office door behind them. When they reached the street, Stout was met by Jorge Salazar, who was there waiting to find out when Stout wanted to go back to the Island of the Moon. Freeman headed for the American embassy on foot, figuring he would cover the distance in plenty of time to keep his appointment with Alicia Montoya.

  He had gone less than a block, lost in thought, when he was stopped by two well-dressed Bolivian men. Both of them wore dark suits, and they looked to be of Indian descent – short, stocky and dark with the leather-like skin that was the result of a lifetime of high-altitude exposure to the sun’s ultraviolet radiation. Freeman knew that Indians in Bolivia rarely dressed in business attire. Usually, they were laborers who had no need for suits, and even under the best of circumstances they didn’t have the money. These two looked prosperous, from the obviously hand-tailored clothing they wore to the Rolex watches on their wrists.

  “Excuse me,” one of them said in heavily-accented English. “Are you Tyler Freeman?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “You can, Mr. Freeman,” the second man replied. “Please come with us.”

  “I’m sorry, do I know you? I have an appointment.”

  Without saying another word, the two men quickly split up and moved to his side, one on the left and the other on the right. They grabbed his arms and pushed him roughly toward a Mercedes limousine that had pulled up in front of them. One of them pulled the door to the limo open as the other pushed his head down and forced him into the back seat. “Hey!” he yelled as the door slammed shut without either of the two men getting in the car with him.

  Freeman grabbed for the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Neither would the power windows. There was no one in the back with him and he had caught only a fleeting glimpse of the driver before the black privacy screen raised and the car pulled away from the curb, accelerating into the flow of traffic. He was completely alone.

  He pounded on the privacy screen, to no avail. Finally, it dawned on him that since he had been kidnapped, he couldn’t get out of the car and the driver wasn’t going to explain why, his best bet was to at least try to mentally record the route the car was taking so he would know where he was going. The problem was, he wasn’t all that familiar with the central part of the city. Most of his daylight hours in Bolivia had been spent either in meetings or on the Island of the Moon. Once the limousine left El Prado, the main thoroughfare through the business district, he lost his bearings. He started looking for memorable buildings or landmarks that would allow him to retrace his route later if he needed to.

  More than twenty minutes passed as the limousine crisscrossed the city in a seemingly random fashion. It wasn’t until the third time Freeman had made note of the same bronze statue of Simon Bolivar that he realized that the route they were taking was deliberately designed to confuse him. Still, he figured that he would continue to keep track of the passing landmarks anyway. If he remembered the last few, he might be able to reconstruct later on where he had been taken.

  This was the first time in many years that Freeman had felt real fear, and he didn’t like it. It was in his nature to face challenge without flinching, but this was an u
nprecedented circumstance. Like most people, nothing like this had ever happened to him, and it was the unknown that bothered him. Why had he been kidnapped? What could anyone possibly hope to gain by doing it? And who were these people? The answer wasn’t to be long in coming, as the car pulled into a dark parking garage, the door shutting behind them as the limousine came to a stop.

  The car door opened, and the man Freeman recognized as the driver leaned down to speak. “Please come with me, Mr. Freeman.”

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?”

  “Please, Mr. Freeman. Just follow me, and I assure you, all will become clear.” The voice was pleasant, almost soothing, although the accent was hard to identify. The driver was dressed in a solid black suit with a white shirt and a blue and gold paisley tie. Another well-dressed Indian, Freeman thought. This is just weird.

  He got out of the car, tense and wondering if he should try to subdue the driver. Common sense told him to wait and see what happened. The driver, no doubt, was only one of many people who might be involved, and at this point Freeman had no way of knowing how many. He followed the driver through the door to the garage, and they entered a cavernous room bathed in light. Blinking to readjust his eyes to the light, Freeman took stock of his surroundings. The room appeared to be an abandoned warehouse, approximately 200 feet long and 120 feet wide. The ceiling was curved, like a Quonset hut, about 40 feet high at its apex. The whole place was dusty, as if no one had been in the warehouse for decades, and there were two men – again in business suits – seated in folding chairs at the far end of the room behind a six-foot folding table. Freeman’s footsteps echoed in the cavernous space as he followed the driver across the length of the room. His eyes darted back and forth across the room as he walked, trying to see if there was a means of escape. The only doors to the place were at either end of the structure, the one he had come through to enter the building, and the other behind the table where the two men sat. Neither was close enough to get to quickly.

  When he reached the table, the driver stood to one side while the two seated men simply stared at him. He stared back, waiting for them to say something. Somehow, he felt, if he made them speak first he’d have the upper hand. Above all, he wasn’t going to show fear.

  Finally, one of the two men rose and extended his hand in greeting. “Mr. Freeman, thank you for seeing us,” he said.

  Freeman simply stared at the man for a few seconds, pointedly refusing to shake his hand. Finally, he said, “Like I had a choice. Who the hell are you people?”

  The second man, still seated, said, “We are the true people of the Andes.” He spoke English without a trace of an accent.

  “You’re Aymara?” Freeman asked.

  “We are Inca. We are the rightful rulers of this land.”

  “Inca,” Freeman said. “I thought the Inca were extinct.”

  “Typical American,” the standing man said. “He knows nothing of the culture or history of any country but his own.” He glared at Freeman.

  “Please, give Mr. Freeman some credit,” the seated man said. “Since he is black, I expect he knows full well what it means to be oppressed.” He stood and pointed to the door behind the table. “Walk with me please, Mr. Freeman, and I will explain why you are here.” Without waiting for Freeman to reply, he turned and headed for the door. Freeman followed him, figuring anything was better than standing there talking in riddles. He also hoped that if the door led to the outside he might have a better chance to escape if the situation took a turn for the worse.

  No such luck. Instead, the door opened into another, smaller room with no door containing what appeared to be radio equipment, a bank of four personal computers, maps on every available square inch of wall space, and a large conference table which appeared to be very old. Seated around the table were a dozen more men, all of them Indians and all dressed in dark, western-style suits and ties. The place seemed to hum with activity, the men engaged in an obviously spirited conversation in some language Freeman had never heard. When he entered the room behind his guide, the room fell silent as all twelve men turned to stare at him.

  “Mr. Freeman, meet the ruling council of El Imperio Nuevo del Inca.”

  In the weeks since he had arrived in Bolivia, Freeman had picked up just enough Spanish to sound his way through simple phrases. “The New Empire of the Inca?” he asked.

  “Very good, Mr. Freeman. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.” His captor, who now seemed to be acting more like an affable host, smiled and pulled out a chair, motioning Freeman to take a seat.

  Warily, Freeman sat, saying nothing. He stared at the twelve seated men one at a time, mentally trying to record their appearance for later reference. The silence began to weigh heavily in the room as the twelve men simply stared back at him. Finally the man who had escorted him into the room said, “Mr. Freeman, I am Manco Capac. I am the namesake and a direct descendent of the last of the Inca emperors, who ruled this land 15 generations ago.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” Freeman responded. “Actually, I’ve been wanting to meet you. You didn’t need to kidnap me.

  Capac smiled again. “Kidnapped is such a harsh word, Mr. Freeman. You are a guest here. After we have our little chat, you will be delivered to your destination unharmed.”

  “You could have just phoned for an appointment.”

  “I doubt you would have seen me. The people you work with know who I am, and would have warned you to stay away from me. They think I’m dangerous, or maybe just a little crazy.” Capac paused, then shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps I am.”

  “Well, I’m listening,” Freeman said. “Tell me what you want.”

  “We want what is rightfully ours,” Capac responded, “And you are in a position to help us get it.”

  “I’m still listening.”

  “Do you really believe that this is the first time the Titicaca Effect has appeared on the lake?” Without waiting for a response, he continued, “My people have known about the phenomenon for centuries. It’s ours. We discovered it eons ago, and we want ownership of it returned to us. The Bolivian government cannot simply lay claim to something that was never theirs to begin with.”

  Startled, Freeman said, “What do you mean, you’ve known about it for centuries? We have no evidence that it’s ever happened before.”

  “Ah, but you do, Mr. Freeman. The evidence is all around you. Tell me, do you know what the word ‘Titicaca’ means in Aymara?”

  “No. What does it mean?”

  “Rock of the Puma. Surely you have seen photographs of the lake taken from space?” Capac opened a drawer on the old desk, extracted a satellite photo of the lake, and slid it across the table toward Freeman. “Look at the picture. What do you see?”

  Freeman turned the photograph until its outline became a recognizable shape. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “It’s shaped a like a pouncing mountain lion. A puma. Okay, I get it.” He slid the photograph back across the table to Capac. “What’s your point?”

  “Lake Titicaca is 140 miles long. How do you suppose my ancestors could have known what the lake looks like from miles above the earth? The only possible explanation is that they saw it from there.”

  Freeman’s eyes locked onto Capac’s. “Now, wait a minute, Mr. Capac. Isn’t that kind of a giant leap in logic? I think it’s just as likely that the Incas developed completely earthbound mapmaking skills.”

  “Of course,” Capac responded. “That’s a possibility. But there are other facts that support my premise. Have you ever seen the Nazca lines?”

  “Surely you don’t believe that those pictographs in the Peruvian desert are some kind of spaceport. They’re just pictures of monkeys and dogs!”

  “On a colossal scale,” Capac said. “The Nazca site is 800 square miles of earthworks. The pictographs were designed to be seen from space. Why else would they have been built? There are similar constructions all over the Andes.”

  “Who knows? Why did the Egyptians
build pyramids out of three million rocks the size of recreational vehicles, just to bury someone? People do some pretty dumb things!”

  You’re aware that another of my ancestors, who founded the original Inca empire, descended from the sun? And that the Incas were the first astronomers?

  “Yes, but don’t see what that has to do with the Titicaca Effect.”

  “It means that we were aware of the cosmos in a way that can only be accounted for through first-hand experience.”

  “Let me get this straight, Mr. Capac. You’re saying that these legends support the idea that the Incas not only had access to the Titicaca Effect, they actually used if for travel somehow?”