The Sam Reilly Collection Volume 3

by Christopher Cartwright

  They stepped out of the aircraft and into the roadhouse. A man in his late fifties with a rotund belly and a ruddy face that gave Sam the impression he’d spent an equal portion of his time serving himself hard liquor as he did his customers, glanced at Sam and Tom.

  Sam greeted the man and said, “We’ll need forty gallons of diesel for the Cessna – any chance you’ve got a line long enough to reach her?”

  The man turned his gaze to outside, where the Cessna was parked thirty feet away from the single diesel bowser. He nodded and spoke as though it were entirely normal to have light aircraft asking for fuel. “I’ll send a boy there to fill her up, right away.”

  Sam watched as a tall boy in his early teens came over with a small ladder and fuel hose. Tom opened the fuel cap and he started to fill the tank from the inlet at the top of the wing. When the young man finished putting 40 gallons into the tank, Sam thanked and paid him before walking back into the road house.

  He and Tom ordered lunch and sat down at the edge of the road house – steak and chips with no choice of salad or vegetables. The steak came from wild springbok and had that distinct taste of game meat about it, but it was good. The beer was some sort of local brew that was drinkable, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to have it again.

  The owner came over shortly and asked, “What brings you out this way?”

  “I’m looking for someone,” Sam answered. “Perhaps you might know where I could find him. He comes out here for the hunting season to offer private tours for people searching for trophy game.”

  The man shrugged. “We’re right next to a game park. I see a lot of people passing through offering hunters from all over the world their wildest dreams. Who are you looking for?”

  “Leo Dietrich.”

  The publican laughed. “I’m sorry to say it, but you won’t find him for the rest of the season.”

  “Why’s that?” Sam asked. “I thought he comes out here for the entire season?”

  “He does. Or normally does, anyway. But this year’s different. He hasn’t been taking anyone game hunting this year.”

  “Why?”

  “Dietrich left here yesterday.” The man poured himself another beer straight from the tap. “Do you want another one?”

  Sam and Tom both declined.

  The publican went on. “He said he was working for some rich man as a guide into the Kalahari Desert. He didn’t say what they were looking for though. It wasn’t game. That much I can tell you, because little exists in the Kalahari Desert.”

  “Do you know who his client was?” Sam asked, hopeful.

  “Not a clue. I didn’t ask and it wasn’t like him to tell me things like that.” The publican shook his head. “I’ll tell you one thing though… his client was a strange man. Not very talkative. Not interested in a drink. And he had the most strikingly intense eyes I’ve ever seen. They were a deep red, possibly even purple – and his skin was white like an albino. Sorry I couldn’t be more help to you.”

  Sam said, “Don’t worry about it. Say, do you have time for one more question?”

  The publican downed the rest of his glass of beer. “Sure.”

  “It might sound crazy, but in all your time out here, have you ever heard anyone mention a pyramid – like the ones built by the Egyptians – being found in the Namib or Kalahari Desert?”

  “I’ve never heard of a pyramid around here. You’d need to head much further north to find any sign of Egyptian engineering…” the guy laughed. “It’s funny you asked though.”

  “Why?”

  “We primarily cater to tourists who want to see the Skeleton Coast or hunt big game and stuff like that, you know…”

  “And?”

  “Just last week, we had a French man here. Another strange man. He had no interest in the hunting or visiting the game park, or even seeing the Skeleton Coast – instead he’d made the journey entirely to do some local cave diving. Do you want to know what he told me he found?”

  “What?”

  “Drawings of a pyramid. He took a photo of them, actually. He said maybe I should put them on the website and start offering tours. Maybe get some unlucky tourist’s fancy.”

  “Do you still have the photos?”

  The man walked out the back of the bar for a few minutes and returned with a couple printed photographs. He handed them to Sam and Tom to look at. The quality was poor and the lighting was terrible. But then again, he said they were taken by a diver in a cave.

  Sam stared at the photographs. Two of them were of a single pyramid surrounded by sand, as though the desert was about to swallow it whole. The third photograph depicted some sort of dark shape. The pyramid looked Egyptian, but there was something strange about it – something creepy or sinister about the way it surrounded the people in the drawing, almost like a snake stalking its prey, who were little more than stick figures. It weaved and crept through their legs as though it were alive.

  He turned over the fourth picture. It depicted a three-mast ship covered with sand. He handed the picture back to the Publican. “Any idea what ship this is?”

  The man shrugged. “It could be any of the four thousand or more unfortunate vessels that have found themselves caught between the Atlantic and the giant sand dunes of the Namib Desert.”

  Sam glanced at the pyramid. It could have been any ancient pyramid built by the Egyptians. He turned his focus back to the image of the strange smoke creature. “Any idea what this is?”

  The manager looked at it. “Looks like smoke to me. Why?”

  “I don’t know. It seems strange this would be here. Whoever drew these images placed a lot of emphases on the smoke. I thought maybe it meant something particular to the region?”

  “Like what?”

  “Something religiously symbolic, perhaps?” Sam suggested. “A local fear or aversion to fire?”

  The manager shrugged. “It could have. The original inhabitants of the region were often superstitious. They believed a whole range of things about different spiritual things. Maybe whoever drew this one believed the smoke was related to their ancestors or something. Who knows? I sure as hell don’t.”

  Sam flicked over the back of the photo. In simple handwriting, written in pencil, were the words – Found painted on a rock at the bottom of the lake. Depth 410 feet. At the bottom of the photo was the date of discovery, which was five days ago.

  “You said that Dietrich took a private hunter out on tour into the Kalahari Desert, didn’t you?”

  “Sure. But he wasn’t a hunter, that’s for sure. He was looking for something, but I can tell you now he wasn’t looking for game. Why do you ask?”

  “I wonder if there was any way Dietrich’s client knew about these photographs?”

  “It’s possible, I put them up on our website just for fun three days ago – but I doubt it. If he was interested in the photographs he didn’t ask about them, or anything about a pyramid if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No. That’s all right. It was just a thought. You don’t think there’s an ancient pyramid buried out there in the Kalahari Desert, do you?”

  Now the man laughed properly. “No. That I can tell you confidently would be impossible. I mean, think about it, for all the journeys that have taken place throughout that harsh and unreasonable environment, no one has ever mentioned finding a pyramid.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Sam handed the photographs back to the publican. “I don’t suppose you know the cave in which these photos were taken?”

  “Of course I do. The same place they all come here to dive!”

  “A lot of people come to the Namibian desert to dive?” Sam asked, surprised.

  “Yeah, it’s not our largest tourism drawing card, but it’s up there. We even have a few SCUBA diving schools in town that focus on advanced cave diving courses.”

  “You don’t say?” Sam nodded. “And what exactly do they all come here to dive?”

  The publican grinned. “That would
be the Dragon’s Breath Cave.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Dragon’s Breath Cave

  The Kalahari Desert is one of the driest places on the planet. The wettest areas received a measly average of 20 inches of rain a year, while the driest enjoyed less than 4 inches. But Africa’s Kalahari Desert used to be a much wetter place. Around 10,000 years ago, Lake Makgadikgadi covered most of the region before it went dry, leaving behind the massive sand dunes we see today. The region’s unique dryness belies that beneath the Kalahari is home to Dragon’s Breath Cave, the largest underground non-subglacial lake in the world.

  One would expect that such a lake would have been possible through distant rainfalls and ancient rivers that seeped through the sands. But such speculation was wrong. Geologists believe the entire region once housed a prehistoric inland sea. As the sea dried up all life that populated the region died off, eventually forming a bed of dolomite. Throughout the millions of years since, the water would eventually seep through the dolomite, which in turn would act as a roof for the underground cave. The surface water would eventually dissipate due to the change in temperature over the aeons, leaving the underground waters undisturbed for millions of years.

  Sam hired equipment and a guide from the local technical and cave diving school to help him and Tom locate the old cave drawings. The guide drove the old Land Rover Defender – one of three in the large dive party who were heading out today – south via the C42 highway into the Otjozondjupa Region, before turning east onto the private property of the Hariseb farm. After 45 minutes the small convoy pulled off the blacktop and onto the dirt road of the Hariseb farm.

  The Defender entered a shallow valley and followed the narrow pock-marked trail made of a mixture of loose soil and sand that ran through the middle of a shallow valley. Sharp rocks edged the trail and small scrub lined the valley wall. The Defender fought its way through the rough terrain until a sheer wall of jagged rocks made navigation by vehicle impossible.

  Their guide, Malcom, pulled up the Defender to a stop. “We’re here, gentlemen.”

  Sam stepped out of the Defender. His feet dug into the soil, which was a burnt red and ran all the way out to the horizon. The empty sky was a rich cerulean blue. The crisp air was starting to warm up. He glanced at the landscape. Jagged rocks lined the valley wall, along with small scrub and a series of sharp uninviting cacti. There was no sign of any caves, let alone the entrance to the world’s largest known subterranean lake.

  He looked at the guide who was opening the back door of the four-wheel drive. “How far is the entrance from here?”

  “Not far.” The guide pointed to the west. “About a five minute walk toward that ridge.”

  “Great,” Sam said.

  “Before you get too excited,” Malcom said, smiling as though he was taking pleasure in relating the next piece of information, “just remember, the dive party will need to move nearly half a ton of equipment by hand to the entrance.”

  Sam and Tom nodded in unison. “Nice day for it.”

  It took the remainder of the day to move the small mountain of equipment that would need to be carried by hand into the cave before any diving could take place. A large array of diving tanks went first, including separate tanks of helium and oxygen. An air compressor followed next. They established a surface to lake phone line to maintain communications. They moved three large inflatable rafts that would serve as the dive platform on the surface of the lake followed by two inflatable boats. Guides checked over existing rigging of ropes and wire caving ladders in preparation for tomorrow’s expedition into the strange world.

  By eight a.m. the next day Sam stared at the entrance. Barely more than a black hole in the middle of a few jagged gray rocks of dolomite, it would have been innocuous enough that he would have easily walked past it without giving it a second thought. But he would have been wrong. It was called the Dragon’s Breath Cave because the hot, humid air that intermittently arose from it gave the impression that it was being exhaled by a dragon. But today, Sam saw no such humid air being exhaled. All he saw was a small hole, just large enough for a fully grown man to squeeze through. But he knew that appearances could be deceptive.

  Sam entered the mouth of the cave.

  He wore a pair of climbing overalls, harness, and helmet with light. He descended a wire caving ladder approximately twenty feet into the first passage. It was a narrow hallway, where a rocky slope ran in a gradual downward slope for approximately sixteen feet. Bats lined the ceiling above. Sam slowly made his way downward until he was forced to stop at a narrow collection of rocks that obstructed his passage, known in spelunking as a choke. He scrambled over the aptly termed choke by placing most of his weight on his hands and chest as he slid over the lip of the boulder, through the confined space that squeezed him with the stone above. He pulled himself through to the other side, where a fixed ladder descended another twenty feet onto a small ledge.

  Sam studied the narrow crevasse into complete darkness below. It was small enough that he wondered how Tom would squeeze through. Their guide had spoken about the choke during their pre-caving and diving briefing. Malcom had identified the spot on the map and assured Tom that he would fit, but it would be a narrow squeeze. Now that Sam stared at the place, he wasn’t quite as confident. The only positive fact was that they would descend feet first, so if it became narrow for Tom, he could always climb out again.

  He attached his figure eight descender to a fixed rope and descended vertically thirty-eight feet onto another ledge with a large pocket in the back, affectionately called The Closet by the guides who used it as a final gear staging area. The narrow passage and pocket were already crammed with climbing gear.

  A guide from one of the other dive teams prepared an additional set of climbing equipment up on the ledge. The guide glanced at Sam as he descended. “How are you travelling, Mr. Reilly?”

  “Good. Much further?”

  The guide pointed along the edge. “Not much. You’re about half-way there. Malcom is down on the raft, getting your dive equipment set up.”

  Sam nodded. “Thanks. See you down there.”

  He disconnected from the first rope and attached himself to a new rope. With his descender firmly in place, he made the forty-eight foot abseil down a steep slope onto a bridge between two walls. Without changing ropes, Sam kicked off the final ledge, and abseiled into the free space one hundred and twenty-five feet onto the inflatable rafts on the water.

  Four massive floodlights lit up the cavern that protected the nearly two hectares of subterranean lake, while a single submarine light glowed from fifty feet below the water’s surface. Sam glanced around the ancient world. Stalactites lined the roof like some sort of a fairy grotto, while stalagmites and fallen stalactites littered the beach to the east. The shallow water near the beach was a bright cobalt blue, while the deeper water toward the west of the lake was a rich ultramarine.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Sam watched as Tom abseiled down the final drop of the hole in the ceiling. He had apparently made it through the choke. The inflatable raft shook under his 260 pounds of muscle. He smiled through a state of hardened concentration as he landed. It was good to see him more like his usual self. They still had no idea where Billie had been taken prisoner, but at least now they were able to focus on something that might lead to her.

  Sam said, “You made it.”

  “Of course I made it.” Tom’s face softened into a smile. “Did you really think I’d get stuck in the narrow slot?”

  “I did have some doubts,” Sam admitted.

  Sam and Tom quickly changed into their dry suits. Lying on the raft next to them in a series of makeshift holding containers, were twelve steel dive tanks. Most were filled with Trimix, a unique combination of oxygen, helium and nitrogen designed to allow a diver to reach extraordinary depths. Two were white with black on top – 100 percent oxygen – if something went wrong and either of them suffered from any sort of Acute Decompression Sickness t
hey would be too far from any hyperbaric chamber. Instead they would have to take the 100 percent oxygen and then perform in-water recompression in the lake.

  The problem with SCUBA diving at great depths was that the additional pressure the further down you went turned otherwise harmless gasses lethal. Below a hundred feet, the increased partial pressure of nitrogen in the blood leads to a syndrome called nitrogen narcosis, where the person experiences symptoms similar to drunkenness and eventually loss of consciousness. Below two hundred feet, oxygen toxicity occurs, leading to seizures and death. The solution was Trimix, a unique combination of oxygen, helium and nitrogen. The current world record was held by a diver who reached a depth below 1000 feet using Trimix.

  Malcom glanced at the number of tanks. Sam and Tom would each wear two on their back and one in front of them. The remaining tanks would be positioned at prearranged decompression stops. Even so, the risk was enormous. “You still want to dive to the bottom?”

  Sam attached his first regulator. “We don’t have a choice. If there are drawings of a hidden pyramid down there, we need to see them.”

  “You realize it might just be a hoax?”

  Sam nodded. “Even so, we need to find out for ourselves.”

  “It’s a long way down.” Malcom leaned over the edge of the raft to look into the ultramarine blue of the unmapped lake that emphasized its extreme depth. “Apart from the person who left that photograph at the Tsumeb road house, no one’s ever reached the bottom of this lake. They did do a deep dive here last week, but there’s no way to prove whether or not they reached the bottom, or even if its 410 feet.”

  Tom slipped into his buoyancy control device. “We’ll let you know when we reach it.”

  Malcom grinned at his temerity. “There’s something you haven’t thought about if you think that photo of hand drawings of a pyramid in the desert is at the bottom of this lake.”

  “What’s that?” Sam asked.