Revenge of the Maya

by Clay Farrow

  * * * *

  Hilton Hastings watched Alberto storm to the chopper's doorway. While the noise of the engine drowned out what he was screaming and the sound of his pistol, his beet red face gave Hilton some insight into the man's sentiments.

  He was torn between two options. Perfectly framed in the middle of the entry, Guerra was a tempting target. He could waste him with his rifle, but he would then end up a splat on the surface of the Caribbean. The other option was to forego temptation and try to save himself.

  Hilton decided and flung the rifle off to the side. The firearm flipped end over end then began its descent, the muzzle pointing the way. He spun his body 180 degrees, his back to the chopper. Extending his arms and legs, Hilton spread-eagled himself horizontally to create as much resistance as possible. He was clad only in a T-shirt and swim trunks which didn't offer a great deal of drag. The velocity of his fall clouded his vision, making it almost impossible to see. The ocean below was a blur, as if he was falling through a thick fog bank.

  He knew his timing had to be to the split second and raised a hand in front of his eyes to shield them. The ocean came into focus.

  Hilton estimated he was seventy feet away from hitting the water which, in this area, was as shallow as fifteen feet in places. It was time. He arched his back and upended his legs, keeping them together, his toes pointing to the heavens. Tilting his torso forward, he stretched his hands over his head. The escape plan had presented itself as a single word - Acapulco, and this would be the dive of his life. Thankfully, the water was crystal clear. He aimed at a narrow valley that ran between two tall chains of coral. A strong breeze stirred up the waves which would hopefully transform the ocean's surface from a slab of concrete into a softer material.

  Although there was some dispute, a 170-pound human falling, reaches a little over 250 miles-per-hour in about fourteen seconds. By those calculations Hilton reckoned he'd be going sixty-five miles-per-hour when he hit the surface.

  The tips of his fingers cut in first. Almost immediately he felt the water resist displacement. Had he miscalculated? Would his collar bone, arms, and shoulders be shattered or dislocated? His arms plunged through the water. He felt pressure bear down on his shoulders, but it was tolerable. The feared slab of concrete was more like a thin sheet of balsa wood.

  The moment he felt his body was completely submerged, he arched his back to veer away from driving into the seabed. He used his hands as a tiller to guide himself along the wandering six-foot wide channel between the coral.

  His brain screamed danger. It was directly in his path, in the center of the ditch. The rifle he had tossed was buried barrel first in the sand. Hitting the AK-47 at this speed would be like crashing into a steel girder. He flipped on his side, in a fluid imitation of Screech, swerving past the obstacle.

  As he shot past, he sensed the razor sharp coral was a whisker from his back. His shirttail was floating free and he felt a momentary tug as the reef’s barbs sank into the cotton T-shirt. The coral reduced his shirttail to colorful streamers. The water began to act as a drag and Hilton's momentum finally slowed. Once he came to a stop, he joyfully kicked toward the surface.

  Hilton's head popped out of the ocean and he looked up. Hovering forty feet above him was the chopper with Guerra and his armed storm troopers. Was it too much to hope they'd withdraw? Guerra's leering smile told him a retreat was wishful thinking on his part. He sensed his problems were only beginning and he began swimming frantically for deeper water.

  * * * *

  Alberto was grinning from ear to ear at the idea of having Hastings all to himself in the middle of nowhere. He was furious there was no reeling him back in. He had been cheated by Hastings' escape, robbed of the sweet pleasure of knowing what the bastard's prospects would be for many years to come – daily doses of torture and torment. If this was to be the extent of his retribution, he didn't want to rush. Vengeance should be a meal of many courses.

  "Wound him, don't kill him."

  Both soldiers raised their rifles to their shoulders and took aim. The tall one was the first to squeeze off a round. The rifle bucked and an instant later the round spit up a plume of water inches from Hilton's head.

  "You stupid peon," Alberto bawled, cuffing the man. "If you kill him, you’ll join him." He craned his neck to look at Romero. "Stabilize this thing."

  Alberto watched Hastings duck-dive and frog-kick for the bottom. The other soldier held his fire, waiting for his quarry to surface. Three minutes passed before Alberto saw Hastings bend his knees to propel himself off the ocean floor and shouted, "He's coming up, get ready."

  Hastings broke the surface. In the space of a second, he sucked in air, then dove once more. The shorter soldier fired.

  Alberto saw a thin stream of red trail Hastings to the bottom. Howling and hooting, he pounded the soldier on the back.

  "Great shooting, you just earned an extra 100 Yankee dollars. Two or three more hits then we watch him drown."

  "Señor Guerra," Romero called out. "We don't have much time."

  Alberto ignored the pilot.

  The tall soldier tapped the senator on the shoulder and pointed to a dark shape traveling toward Hilton. "Shark."

  Alberto nodded in satisfaction. He laid a hand on the shorter soldier's arm. "Hold your fire."

  * * * *

  Hilton also saw the man-eater and immediately struggled out of his shredded T-shirt. Although his lacerated calf was a flesh wound, with a shark in the vicinity even the tiniest scratch could prove fatal. He was aware sharks have an acute sense of smell, able to detect a drop of blood in twenty-five gallons of water. He tied the T-shirt around the gash, which temporarily staunched the bleeding.

  The next order of business was to find a weapon and then get some air into his lungs. He scooped up a pair of sharp-edged rocks off the ocean floor, one in each hand, and pushed off for the surface with one eye on the approaching shark.

  His head bobbed out of the water and he saw the killer homing-in on him. Treading water, he sucked in much needed oxygen and contemplated his next move. So far the rifle fire from the chopper had not resumed. He presumed the reason Guerra held off was because of the imminent shark attack. The sadist was probably drooling in gleeful anticipation of his gruesome death.

  Hilton knew the dos and don'ts of surviving shark attacks. He had preached them for years. Now with any luck, he would practice what he had preached. The cardinal rule was don't play dead. Passivity wouldn't deter an aggressive animal - in its mind, dead prey was an easy meal. Another key to survival was to remain calm. Sharks sensed fear, which could stimulate an attack. A third rule was don't try out-swimming it, you won't and that would only encourage it to give chase. A final do was what he was doing, keeping an eye on the brute at all times.

  The shark cut through the water, directly for him. He would fight the attack on the ocean surface. In an underwater attack, a shark needed its victims to be horizontal because its nose extended beyond those fearsome teeth. Hilton held himself in a vertical position with his limbs tight to his body, forcing a surface assault.

  The creature would rear out of the water and attempt to swallow the head of its quarry. Hilton braced himself as the distance between prey and predator narrowed. He had never been this close to one of these primordial beasts. No sane person, he thought, could be expected to remain calm in the face of a twelve foot, 1,100 pound monster, who’d decided you were the catch of the day.

  He thought his attacker must be an adult Tiger shark. The fish was too big to be a Bull and a Great White had never been sighted in the Western Caribbean as far as he knew. His suspicion was confirmed when he saw the faded dark stripes of a mature Tiger. He waited, ready to thrash the three areas where a shark was vulnerable.

  The Tiger cut the gap between them to a yard, its gray eyes were vacant, emotionless. The killer curled its mouth back to expose its teeth, twenty-four serrated scalpels extending from its upper and lower jaw. Its nose protruded high in the air, it
s eyes disappeared, rolling back in their sockets.

  Hilton struck first, kicking his upper body out of the water as high as possible. He pulverized the tip of the shark's nose with the stone he clutched in his left hand. The granite edge slashed open the killer's snout, but Hilton wasn't finished yet. He used the weapon as leverage to pole-vault further out of the water. Simultaneously, he swung the rock in his right hand at the creature's eye, gouging it and forcing the head and those lethal incisors away from his legs.

  The last of Hilton's three-punch combination was a left cross launched at the gill. The stone dagger slashed into the fleshy opening. The shark twisted away, wrenching one of Hilton's weapons from his grasp. The dorsal fin slid beneath the waves, and the attacker drifted into the depths.

  Hilton dropped back into the sea, panting heavily. His arsenal had been cut in half, but in most cases a single blow should be enough to persuade a shark to search out easier pickings. The euphoria he felt briefly was choked off when the killer came about.

  The attack would come underwater this time, aimed at Hilton's bloodied calf. The beast had learned its lesson. It swam on its side to compensate for the vertical victim. Hilton knew fending off a submerged strike without diving equipment was a fool's game. His stone club was useless given the physics of water resistance. He duck-dived with the rock held in both hands, intending to use it as a shield. A flash caught the corner of his eye. The man-eater veered on an upward angle, still targeting his legs. Hilton tried to rotate, but knew he was too late.

  The shark was feet away. For the second time the brute opened its mouth and rolled its eyes back in their sockets. Hilton was defenseless. He'd been under too long, his lungs felt like they were deflating, the oxygen sucked out of them; his eyes were burning as if they were being pricked by thousands of saline needles. He couldn't tear his gaze away, mesmerized by the impending disaster. He visualized his flesh ripped from his bones. His only epitaph, a short-lived crimson cloud floating on the surface of the Caribbean.

  There was a loud thump as the beast's right gill was stabbed by a silver spear from the ocean's depths. The shark floundered. Hilton pulled away from the stunned Tiger. The silvery missile disappeared for an instant and then shot up from below a second time and gored the dazed shark once more in the gill.

  Hilton stared in disbelief as the Tiger went belly-up and began to sink. What had ended his nightmare? He felt himself lifted to the surface, where he gratefully gulped mouthfuls of air, drinking in the joy of being alive. Slowly coming out of his death dream, his eyes lit up on hearing a chorus of high-pitched chirps.

  "Screech!"

  His rescuer dipped its rostrum, which he had just used as a battering ram, into the water and playfully splashed Hilton, who burst out laughing. He returned the lighthearted gesture using the heel of his hand. The turbulent seas and the chopper's slipstream cut short any relief he felt. Guerra was in the doorway of the helicopter with his underlings, their rifles' aimed at him. A trace of smoke from one of the barrels and a small fountain of water erupted a foot away.

  Hilton grasped the dolphin's dorsal fin and yelled, "Dive, Screech, dive deep."

  The mammal barreled head first into the choppy brine, towing Hilton.

  * * * *

  Alberto watched as man and dolphin slid beneath the waves. The soldiers continued to follow his earlier orders. They resumed firing a shot at a time in an effort to wound Hilton.

  He turned to the pilot. "Take us lower," he shouted.

  Romero shook his head. "We're almost out of fuel. We have to get to land now or we'll be forced to ditch in the ocean."

  "I want him before we go anywhere," Alberto hollered as he turned back to the door. He watched the pair weaving through the coral, swimming for the dark sanctuary of deeper water.

  As the chopper gained altitude, Alberto wheeled on the pilot. "What the hell do you think you're doing? I ordered you after him."

  "I won't endanger my aircraft. We are heading for the coast to refuel," Romero yelled.

  "Kill him," Alberto ordered, resigning himself to the reality he wasn't going have the rapturous delight of witnessing Hastings' slow and painful demise.

  The two soldiers set their AK-47s to automatic and opened up. The smoke was immediate as the rifles cycled through the seventy-five rounds in the drum magazine at a rate of 600 rounds a minute. The lead chewed up the ocean surface, visibly tracing a path through the water to Hilton's back.

  The tall soldier slammed another magazine into the smoking rifle. He continued his salvo until the front grip exploded in flames.

  "Cease fire," Alberto yelled.

  The distance between them was widening. The damn weapons were overheating and catching fire. Alberto wondered if there would be no end to today's bad luck.

  He stepped back from the doorway and plunked himself down on the closest bench. Resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his head in his hands, his sense of despair overwhelming.

  Finally he lifted his head. "Head for the pickup. Maybe there's something we can salvage from this fiasco."

  * * * *

  Hilton and Screech had been submerged a little over a minute. He wondered when Guerra would run out of ammo. He didn't need oxygen yet, but if Guerra kept up his barrage for another few minutes, things could get sticky. At this depth he wasn't concerned with being killed or wounded. Bullets ceased to be lethal after punching through four feet of water. At ten feet, a slug would feel like a gnat landing on his back. Glancing up, he noticed the surface was calm. Earlier, the firepower had churned up the water and he realized he was invisible to those in the chopper. The sky now seemed empty. Had Guerra given up?

  Hilton relaxed his grip on the dolphin's dorsal fin and kicked toward the surface with Screech following close on his heels. As soon as his head was out of the water, he searched the skies for any sign of the chopper. A dot was winging its way due west.

  He felt Guerra would never concede defeat so easily, something else had to be at work. Were today's events related? There were too many coincidences not to be: the Liz Dennison woman showing up at the resort looking for Monica, his stumbling across a decades old mug shot of himself, then Guerra dropping in out of the blue.

  Treading water, he scanned the horizon. The northeast tip of Hick's Cay was two hundred yards to the south, but at this time of year the low-lying land was nothing more than a mangrove swamp. He figured Cay Caulker was five or six miles northwest.

  He would have preferred to go directly to Altun Ha, but he had a responsibility to ensure the guests had returned safely to the resort. And trekking barefoot through a snake-infested jungle was not the most tempting of plans. He hated snakes, or to be brutally honest – they scared the crap out of him! Dusk was settling in and he knew it would be well after dark when he finally reached the Caribbean Breezes.

  "Well, Screech, looks as if we have a short swim ahead of us." He began swimming for home.

  Screech chirped and fell in alongside of him.

  Hilton suspected Monica was somehow a central character in the events of the day. The how and the why were beyond him at the moment. But what was certain was he had to get to Altun Ha, to get to Monica and Amanda as quickly as possible.

  18:

  Altun Ha – Tuesday

  Liz Dennison ducked through the low rocky opening to the next cavern and stood beside Monica Fremont, who swept the flashlight beam over the vast space. Liz estimated the cave to be sixty-by-sixty with a twenty-foot ceiling. The stalagmites reminded her of some gothic torture chamber from a Hollywood movie.

  "The incline veers up to the left," Monica said, directing the beam at the rough hewn trail weaving through the vertical outcroppings. "If you look closely, you can make out the entrance in the dim light."

  She was grateful Monica had offered to guide her out of the cave complex. The underground network was a maze of caves, tunnels, grottos, and dead ends and she was certain she would have gotten lost on her own. Liz studied Monica closely. She was convince
d the archaeologist would help if the impact of her discovery was clearly explained. Ken's demands for heavy-handed tactics were totally unnecessary.

  "We'll have you on your way in five minutes," Monica said as she threaded her way toward the brightening light. "You'll be on the highway before it's completely dark and back in Belize City before eight."

  Liz followed, wondering how candid she should be. Monica had mentioned she would be seeing JJ this week, believing he was hale and hardy. She debated telling her the truth. How would she react to the news?

  * * * *

  Monica emerged from the cave's entrance, located a stone's throw from a ramshackle cabin. A sign in front of the cottage bore the inscription 'Welcome Center & Site Administration Office', and below, 'Custodian on duty 24 hours.'

  "Caves give me the creeps," Liz said. "I feel like they're closing in on me."

  "But they offer a respite from the afternoon heat. I try to schedule my mornings working up here and my afternoons below ground."

  As they walked past the building, Peter, the elderly custodian, limped out. "Good evening, Doctor."

  "Good evening, Peter. Closing up?" Monica asked.

  He nodded. "Making my final rounds and shooing away the last few tourists."

  "Have you seen Amanda?"

  "I believe she's over by your truck with a young friend."

  "Thank you. See you bright and early tomorrow," she said, searching for Amanda on the far side of the plaza. In the dwindling light she could barely make out the young couple huddled together.

  The women strode across the broad courtyard toward the camp.

  "You're sure I can't persuade you to let me accompany you to Tikal?" Liz asked.

  "No. Any discussion I have with JJ should be private and without pressure. We have to carefully weigh all our options."