Once we submerged and were on our way, Pablo, Pietro, and I conferred with Captain Gonzales, making sure we were out of earshot of the others. Ostensibly, the four of us—with me in command—were having a strategy session. In reality, I was completely ignorant of our situation and wanted to learn what was going on.
Martin and Hazelhorst looked agape at the latest developments. They were obviously convinced I was the mastermind behind some grand spy conspiracy. I could tell from the twinkle in Catarina’s eyes that she was fully cognizant of and immensely amused by the reindeer games being played, though she dared not display her delight in the deception.
“Where are we headed, Captain Gonzales?” I asked.
“About fifty miles east of Belize City, to the Lighthouse Reef coral atoll. Then, we’ll descend into the Blue Hole.”
“I’m not familiar with that. Clue me in.”
“Okay,” he grinned. “I’ll give you a brief geography lesson.
“Most of the Yucatan peninsula is comprised of porous limestone and has no surface rivers. When the heavy tropical rains come, water soaks into the limestone like it’s a giant sponge. Over millions of years, the seeping water has dissolved much of the rock underground, forming a network of interconnected subterranean watercourses—underground rivers, if you prefer to call them that—and enormous caverns.
“Some cavern roofs have collapsed. The resultant sinkholes, which can be hundreds of yards across and incredibly deep, are called cenotes. The ancient Maya believed that cenotes were entrances to the Otherworld, the home of their gods. Some cenotes were used as sources of fresh water. Others, such as the sacred cenote at Chichén Itzá, were the sites of human sacrifices. Young virgins, mostly—but also enemy prisoners—were thrown in the water to drown, as an offering to the gods.
“The Blue Hole is a rare ocean cenote, an almost perfect circle more than three hundred meters in diameter and one hundred fifty meters deep. Its indigo waters contrast sharply with the turquoise of the shallow lagoon surrounding it, so it’s easily spotted from many kilometers away, especially from an airplane.
“Jacques Cousteau explored the Blue Hole in the 1970s. But, to my knowledge, I am the only person who has discovered a navigable subterranean watercourse linking the Blue Hole to the Yucatan peninsula,” Gonzales boasted. He unrolled a chart and spread it out on a table.
“We’ll descend deep into the Blue Hole and then enter a tunnel that runs laterally under the floor of the Caribbean sea,” he said, moving his finger across the chart. “When we reach the coast, we’ll be in an underground river that flows beneath the country of Belize. Our destination is a large cenote at the southern tip of the Mexican state of Campeche, near the Guatemalan border. Presidente Perez is at a hacienda a few kilometers from the cenote.”
I was incredulous at the elaborate plan. “Does the sub have to be submerged the entire time?” I asked.
Gonzales shook his head from side to side. “No. There are many places in the underground river where we can surface—wherever the passageway has sufficient air space above the water line.”
“Why are we staying under water now? Are you worried someone else might be following us?”
Gonzales smiled grimly. “A tropical storm is moving in. It hasn’t grown to hurricane strength yet, but the winds are increasing. The storm may achieve hurricane status by the time it reaches this area. We’ll be much more comfortable beneath the surface, where the water will be less turbulent.”
I DECIDED IT WAS TIME to try to find out why Muscles and Red had been after us. They were lying in a supine position, hands tied behind their backs, legs tightly bound. I walked up and nudged them with my foot. They glared at me, intense hatred in their steely eyes. If looks could kill, I would be dead.
“Okay, who wants to talk first?” I asked, focusing on first one and then the other.
Neither man spoke.
“What are your names?” I persisted.
“You’ve been calling us ‘Muscles’ and ‘Red’,” the one with red hair said. “Those names are good enough.”
“Who do you work for, Red?” I glowered sinisterly. “You might as well tell me now. If I have to force the information out of you, you’ll wish you’d told me willingly.”
Red wasn’t intimidated. “Screw you,” he spat. “I’m not going to tell you anything, Hobson. Not my name, not my rank, not my serial number. Nada, do you understand me? All I’ll say is, you’re going to be in a helluva lot of trouble if you manage to get back to the States alive.”
I knew it was futile to threaten Red and Muscles with the gun. Not on the sub. If a stray bullet punctured the hull, water would burst in and flood the compartment and the boat would quickly founder. I knew it and they knew it.
“Okay, Muscles, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“Red already said it for me. Screw you.”
“Hey, Captain Gonzales,” I called out. “Has this sub got a torpedo tube? I think I’d like to deep six these rats.”
“No,” he laughed. “But the next time we surface, we can tie them to a rope, toss them overboard, and troll them behind us for bait. Who knows? We might catch a shark for dinner.”
“That sounds like a viable plan,” I said.
Heidi and Luther had been listening to the conversation bug-eyed. They were seeing a side of me they didn’t know existed. But then, neither did I, for that matter.
“Speaking of dinner … is anyone hungry? We never got to finish our lunch.” My stomach was growling.
“Don’t even mention food,” Martin retorted. “This boat has rocked so much it’s made me nauseous.”
I was sorely tempted to correct the dean’s grammar by telling him he was always nauseous—the rocking was making him nauseated. But it didn’t seem to be the right time for snide remarks.
“I’m sorry, Señor Martin,” Gonzales apologized. “We’re getting buffeted about because of the storm. I cannot dive any deeper right now. The water here is too shallow. Soon we will be at the Blue Hole. Once we have descended, the ride will be as smooth as glass.”
But it was another hour before we reached Lighthouse Reef atoll and were able to descend into the depths of the Blue Hole, and, by then, even the crew members had become queasy.
THE TINY SUBMARINE had not been designed for military use. Rather, it was built expressly to give tourists who did not care to snorkel or scuba dive an underwater view of coral reefs and marine life. It had two rows of comfortable padded seats—five down each side, ten in all—with a large porthole next to each seat. The captain and crew went about their tasks fore and aft and on the bridge, while the seven in our original group—Cat and I, Luther and Heidi, the Santos twins, and Miguel—sat and peered out the portholes.
Red and Muscles were still lying on the deck. In a way, I felt sorry for them. If they’d cooperated just a little bit, I would have allowed them to sit with the rest of us. Tied up, of course.
As we descended, the water changed from glass-clear near the surface to turquoise, then sky blue, eventually darkening to Prussian blue. By the time we were near the bottom of the ocean sinkhole, the water outside the submarine appeared to be an inky midnight blue.
The multitude of small, colorful fish near the surface were replaced by larger creatures which could be seen only as ghostly phantoms, shadowy shapes swimming slowly and silently in the semidarkness, and a few phosphorescent fish that glowed in the dark.
Captain Gonzales stood before us to make an announcement: “In a few minutes, we will be leaving the Blue Hole and entering a subterranean waterway. It’s about thirty meters in diameter in most places, and might be compared to the Chunnel between Britain and France—except, of course, the tunnel beneath the English Channel is man-made and dry and this one is natural and filled with water. While we are in the tunnel, we will be in total darkness.
“There are lamps at the front of the submarine, but in order to conserve energy I will not turn them on unless they’re needed. Our course will be
guided entirely by sonar.
“We have a long trip ahead. Unless any of you have objections, I will dim the lights inside now, also to save electricity. Please make yourselves as comfortable as possible and try to get some sleep. My men and I will work in shifts. We should arrive at our destination no later than 0900 hours tomorrow.”
Catarina sat on the seat across the aisle from me, and we held hands. I closed my eyes, but was unable to slip into more than a twilight slumber. At all times I was conscious of where I was and could hear the droning of the boat’s diesel engine and the cavitation from the propeller and the shuffling about of the crew, but those realities were interwoven with exhaustion-induced visions of colorful fish morphing into swarthy men trying to run me down with black limousines and helicopters exploding and a lagoon full of snapping green crocodiles and black pomegranates that were actually hand grenades and …
Something sounded strange. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the sub’s engine seemed to be straining. It had a different pitch—whining, grinding, like a stick shift pickup slammed into second gear at fifty miles per hour. Somewhere above, Gonzales was muttering, perhaps cursing under his breath in Spanish.
I was wide awake with the sudden realization that we were hundreds of feet below the ocean floor in a water-filled tunnel no one except Gonzales and his crew knew existed. If the engine failed or if the hull sprung a leak and the submarine took on water or if anything else went wrong, we would be entombed in our watery grave forever.
The vibration increased in tempo as well as pitch. Then, with a shudder, followed by a loud moan, the engine abruptly stopped.
Twenty-Five
Earthquake!
I RUSHED UP the brass ladder to the bridge, but as quietly as possible, in order not to wake the others, who had all fallen asleep. Captain Gonzales was busily turning dials and punching switches and pulling levers.
“What’s wrong? Why did we stop?” I asked, breathlessly.
Gonzales wiped heavy beads of sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his white uniform. “The engine was overheating, that’s all. I had to shut it down to prevent permanent damage. We’ll be on our way again shortly.”
I could tell from his frazzled expression things weren’t quite that simple. Perhaps Gonzales thought I wouldn’t be able to comprehend the problem. Perhaps he was concerned about how I might react if I did.
I spoke firmly. “Give it to me straight, Gonzales. Exactly what is our present situation?”
At that moment, Pablo’s head popped through the hatchway like a gopher emerging from its burrow. I extended my arm to help him climb the rest of the way, but he shook his head and made it up without any assistance.
Captain Gonzales lit a cigarette. Like an automaton, I reached for the pack in my shirt pocket—a gesture I was to repeat many times over the next several years. But, there were no cigarettes there. I had finally quit smoking, completely and absolutely. The last cigarette I’d smoked was in the Timberline College supply room, on the afternoon Heidi Hazelhorst tried to seduce me.
I wondered what might have happened if I hadn’t been in love with Catarina when Heidi made her move on me. Undoubtedly, I would have succumbed to Heidi’s wiles and become her love slave, or worse. For some reason, I was reminded of black widow spiders and praying mantises; after mating, the female kills and eats the male.
The captain’s strained voice brought me back to reality.
“All right. I’ll give it to you straight. I may not be able to take you where you want to go.”
“What’s the problem?”
He directed our attention to the sonar screen. “We’re in a large cavern under Belize. I’ve named it Alpha 3; it’s the third cavern from the Blue Hole. Alpha 4 is about five kilometers away, to the west. To get there we have to go through a tunnel. Usually, the tunnel is only half-filled with water.
“Today, however, it’s completely filled. Apparently the tropical storm brought a heavy rainfall and so much of the water’s already filtered down through cracks and crevices in the limestone that the subterranean rivers are flooded.
“Just before the tunnel empties into Alpha 3 it narrows to less than seven meters in diameter. That’s a tight fit for this sub, but, with careful navigation, I’ve made it through more than a dozen times before, without any trouble.
“The present lack of air space at the top of the tunnel has caused a venturi effect. Where the opening is constricted, the current is flowing at thirty or forty kilometers per hour. Perhaps more. I cannot build up enough speed to enable us to plunge through. I tried, and succeeded only in overtaxing the engine.”
“What do we do now?” I asked.
Gonzales leaned back on a metal stool. He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew a thick cloud of smoke before answering.
“There are three options. We can wait here in the cavern until the water recedes. That might be just a matter of hours, but we might also have to stay here for days or even weeks. My radio won’t work down here, so I have no way of knowing what’s happening with the weather. The storm could have passed over, or the rain could still be pouring down.”
“That’s out,” Pablo sputtered. “We must get to Presidente Perez as quickly as possible. Besides,” he added as an afterthought, “we brought only enough provisions with us to last one day.”
“Another alternative is to return to the Blue Hole,” the captain continued. “Then, I can take you to a place where you can obtain other transportation. A helicopter, perhaps.”
Pablo shook his head. “That will not work, either. An aircraft will be noticed on radar, and then they will know where Presidente Perez is hiding.” He did not bother to explain who “they” were. Perhaps Gonzales and the others on board knew, but I was totally in the dark.
“What’s the third option?” I asked impatiently.
“Another underground river flows into this cavern. I’ve been through it only once. It’s quite large, so I don’t think there will be a problem with water velocity. The tunnel ends at a cenote about seventeen kilometers from Presidente Perez’s hacienda.”
“Seventeen kilometers? That’s about ten miles, isn’t it?”
Gonzales nodded.
“That shouldn’t be a problem. We can walk that distance, if there’s no ground transportation available.”
“It will not be as easy as you might imagine, Señor Alfredo,” Gonzales replied grimly, shaking his head. “There are no taxicabs in the jungle. You will have to machete your way through a dense rain forest filled with many wild animals and snakes.”
“Will you and your crew come with us?” Pablo requested, half expecting Gonzales to say no.
Gonzales contemplated for a minute. “Of course. We are all well aware of the importance of this mission. We would lay down our lives for Presidente Perez.”
“Thank you, Captain Gonzales,” Pablo told him appreciatively. “I hope you won’t have to.” He turned to me, scowling. “What do you want to do with your prisoners, Señor Alfredo?”
Pablo had evidently made Red and Muscles my sole responsibility, since I had spared their lives.
“We’ll bring them along. We’ll need all the help we can get to carry our gear. If they give us any trouble, though …” I didn’t need to complete the sentence. Both Pablo and Gonzales understood that, if necessary, I would not hesitate to give orders to kill the two men. How I had changed! I wasn’t sure it was for the better.
ONCE WE WERE INSIDE Beta tunnel, Captain Gonzales raised the submarine to the surface.
“If you wish, you can go topside now,” he suggested. “The air will be most refreshing. It gets very stuffy in the submarine.”
He was right. The air inside the sub had become quite stale: hot, humid, sticky, and redolent with sweat and cigarette smoke. I took Catarina had wakened and I took her by the hand. We climbed a narrow set of stairs, opened a watertight seal, and stepped out onto the top deck.
The air in the tunnel was refreshingly cool, though still quite
humid. Cat and I stood arm in arm, enjoying the slight breeze created by the boat’s movement. We couldn’t see a thing at first, but as our eyes adjusted to the darkness we discovered that the ceiling of the tunnel gave off a phosphorescent glow—caused, I later learned, by a growth of bacteria on the moist surfaces of the rock.
I reflected on my situation. Had someone told me six months earlier I would be standing with my gorgeous Latina lover on top of a small submarine, cruising up an uncharted underground river in Central America to a tropical jungle sinkhole with a motley assortment of fellow travelers, two of whom I might have to kill, I would have thought that person stark raving mad.
But there I was. Perhaps I was in my own bed in California, asleep, having a near-life experience, and would wake up shortly to find I was still an associate professor at Timberline College with a class full of unruly students and a browbeating bully for a boss and the most excitement in my life an occasional head crash on my computer’s disk drive.
When Catarina spoke, I knew I was not dreaming. “I’m so very proud of you, Alfredo.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I know much of what has happened to you recently has been new and unexpected. Yet, you have risen to each occasion with valor. Pablo, Pietro, Miguel, and Gonzales all have the utmost respect for you, Alfredo. You are a natural-born leader of men. Perhaps I will have papa make you commander-in-chief of the Granada Negra army, after we dispose of Pancho Villa.”
“I, uh, I’m not sure military life is my calling,” I stammered, Jimmy Stewart style.
The submarine entered a large cavern, one which Gonzales had named Beta 4, though there were no Betas 1, 2, or 3. The phosphorescence had increased, bathing the entire cave with a luminous moonlit-like glow. Giant icicle-shaped stalactites hung from the ceiling, each glittering, seemingly encrusted with crystalline jewels. It was as if we were inside a monstrous geode. We gaped in awe, hypnotized by the surrealistic world we’d entered.
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