Kai shouted a warning, but the man had made his decision. He jammed the truck into gear and turned toward the vehicle tunnel. A hail of bullets from the Army specialists stopped the truck before it reached the entrance.
Now alone, Kai knew he had only one choice. He sprinted through the mist and vaulted the wall, landing on top of one of the outlet pipes.
The pipe had an immense diameter. Standing on top was like standing on the roof of a moving train. The entire conduit shook with the relentless flow of the water as it curved away. Crouching to stay out of sight, Kai felt its vibration coursing through his body like a current of electricity.
Between the wall and the mist, he was temporarily out of the line of fire, but he now had nowhere else to go. If he emerged, he’d be shot head-on. If he waited, he’d be picked off from the side or surrounded and captured. And if he jumped …
Kai stared at the water blasting from the pipes with a force like rocket engines at full throttle, each jet ten feet in diameter and moving at a hundred miles an hour. The water left the four pipes separately, then merged ten feet from the outflow point, where it dropped to the churning waters below.
If he jumped, it would either drown him or break every bone in his body. Probably the river would do both.
Better than spending the rest of my life in an American prison, he thought.
A spread of covering fire pinged off the concrete wall behind him. He knew that meant one group of soldiers was moving forward while the other group was keeping him pinned down.
He raised his pistol and fired blindly over the wall in all directions, emptying the magazine in hopes of giving himself a second to act.
With the ammo used up, he tossed the gun aside, turned toward the river and dove from the outflow pipe into the mist.
Several of the Rangers saw him dive. One even snapped off a shot, though in his report he admitted it was not well aimed. Whether it hit the target or not, he would never know. Omar Kai disappeared into the Colorado River and vanished. His body was never recovered.
CHAPTER 63
Kurt and Morgan returned from the depths of the cave with bad news. “Barlow and Robson escaped out the back. They’re on foot.”
“Let’s go after them,” Joe said.
With Paul and Gamay guarding the prisoners, Kurt, Joe and Morgan reloaded their weapons and left the cave.
As they emerged, one of Barlow’s Black Hawks dusted off and headed south. It traveled half a mile down the slope of the ravine and then hovered and began a slow, sideways drift.
“I’ll give you one guess what they’re looking for,” Kurt said.
“Barlow and Robson,” Morgan said. “They must have called for help.”
Kurt looked over to where the second Black Hawk sat quietly. Turning to Joe, he asked the obvious question. “We’ll never catch them on foot. Can you fly that thing?”
“No problem,” Joe said. “They’re all basically the same once you get inside.”
The three of them rushed to the helicopter and Joe climbed on board. As he started the engines, Kurt and Morgan climbed in the back. They found a heavy, mechanized cart, shovels and other tools that had never been used.
“Barlow came prepared.”
“He’s going to leave that way too if we don’t hurry,” Kurt said.
Joe powered up the engines, getting them off the ground in record time. They turned to the south, where the other helicopter had picked up Barlow and Robson.
“They’re on the move,” Morgan said. “We need to catch them.”
Joe poured on the power, accelerating toward the other craft, but Barlow’s pilot did the same thing, flying along the deck and heading toward the open end of Silver Box, where it merged with the main branch of the Grand Canyon.
He couldn’t close the gap.
“Can’t catch him,” Joe said. “These choppers are identical. We have the same exact amount of power.”
“We don’t have to catch them,” Kurt said. “All we have to do is follow. There’s no way they can fly that thing to Canada or Mexico. Eventually, they’ll have to land and try some other method of escape.”
“That sounds easy enough,” Morgan said.
“Too easy,” Joe replied. “They’ve already figured it out.”
Up ahead, Barlow’s helicopter was slowing and turning to the side. Muzzle flashes from the open cargo door announced a barrage of rifle fire.
Joe shoved the controls over and banked hard to the right. Glancing behind him, he saw Kurt and Morgan righting themselves.
“A little warning next time,” Kurt said.
“Sorry,” Joe said. “They tried to hit us with a broadside.”
The mood in Barlow’s helicopter couldn’t have been more tense. “You missed,” Barlow snapped at Robson. Both men were looking out the cargo door.
“We need to be closer,” Robson said.
Barlow turned toward the pilot. “You should have disabled the other helicopter.”
“I was busy coming to rescue you,” the pilot said. “Besides, how was I to know they had someone who could fly it?”
Realizing two streams of bullets were better than one, Barlow grabbed a rifle. “Let them get closer,” he said. “I’ll deal with them personally.”
Joe could see the danger plainly. The nearer he got to Barlow’s Black Hawk, the more likely he was to get hit. On the other hand, if he turned and ran, they’d be even more vulnerable. His only hope was to get Barlow’s pilot to make a mistake.
He swung wide, kept up his speed, and then rolled the helicopter back in the other direction. “Setting up for an attack run,” he shouted.
Behind him, Kurt pushed their cargo door open and locked it into place. “No sharp turns without telling me first,” Kurt said. “I don’t want to end up skydiving without a parachute.”
Joe nodded and turned his attention back to the target. Barlow’s helicopter was turning tightly and losing speed in the process. Joe had to keep his speed up to stay ahead of the rifles that were being aimed out the side door.
“I’m going to fake left and then turn right. You’ll get a shot as we fly past.”
The approach was a twisting one, with the helicopter picking up speed, banking to the left and then back to the right.
Barlow’s pilot responded by slowing almost to a hover and rotating the Hawk like a turret. A hailstorm of fire came from the cargo door. Most of the bullets went wide and low, though a couple of shots caught the bottom of the craft, punching holes in the sheet metal and disappearing.
Joe pressed on, racing past the motionless craft. As it flashed by, Kurt and Morgan unleashed everything they had. When they looked back, it didn’t appear they’d done any damage.
“Pistols against rifles is a losing bet,” Morgan said.
“And now they’re after us,” Joe said.
Their fortunes had now reversed. As soon as Joe passed Barlow’s craft, Barlow’s pilot had turned. The hunter had become the hunted.
With Barlow’s helicopter following them, Joe had little choice but to run. That meant flying along the deck like a madman.
Kurt and Morgan held on in the back, checking their ammunition. “Two shots left,” Kurt said.
“I have five,” Morgan said. “That’s not going to do much.”
The chase continued down the length of Silver Box Ravine and out across the narrow strip of water that was the Colorado River by the end of summer.
With the wider space of the Grand Canyon around them, Joe banked to the left, hoping to circle Barlow’s helicopter and regain the advantage.
It was a good effort, but Barlow’s pilot cut him off and they took another broadside from the rifles in Barlow’s and Robson’s hands.
Joe ducked as the swarm of bullets hit them, drilling holes in the plexiglass and sheet metal.
“Faster,” Morgan urged.
“No,” Kurt said. “Slower. And higher. As high as we can get.”
“We’ll stall at some point,” Joe said.
“So will they. And then all of us will be standing still for a moment.”
“The sitting-duck plan,” Joe said. “Why not? The exact opposite of anything tactically logical.”
Joe dipped the nose of the helicopter, picked up as much speed as possible and then pulled back on the controls. The agile craft began to rise, its nose angled up into what would be called a maximum climb angle.
“Keep going,” Kurt said. “They’re following us up.”
Joe kept the throttle wide open and the helicopter climbing, despite the speed soon beginning to bleed off. As the needle on the airspeed indicator fell backward, the altimeter began to slow. Soon the rotors were clawing at the air.
“Five thousand feet,” Joe said. “We’re not going to make six.”
Barlow’s Black Hawk had raced up behind them, unwilling to let Joe gain the high ground or get away.
“Drift right,” Kurt shouted.
Joe stepped on the rudder pedal, afraid that any other change would stall them out and send them spiraling to the ground.
The helicopter slid to the right, putting them directly over Barlow’s craft by no more than a hundred feet. The stall warning began to scream.
“It’s now or never,” Joe called out.
In the back of the helicopter, Kurt flipped the control knob on Barlow’s mechanized cart to the forward position. It surged out the cargo door, carrying every tool and loose piece of equipment Kurt and Morgan could find.
The cart went over the edge with surprising grace, flipping upside down slowly and raining a storm of shovels, picks and other gear toward Barlow’s helicopter. The tools were batted aside by the rotor blades, but the hundred-pound metal cart was another story. It crashed through the rotors, shattering three of the four blades, before slamming into the curved plexiglass of the cockpit.
Barlow’s Black Hawk twisted and rolled over. It fell from the sky, dropping like a stone, until it slammed into the rocky banks of the Colorado River and burst into flames.
CHAPTER 64
Joe’s expert piloting skills prevented their helicopter from suffering a similar fate. After stabilizing their craft and leveling off, he turned back toward the burning wreckage. One look told them all they needed to know.
“No one survived that impact,” Kurt said. “Let’s get back to the cave.”
Returning to Silver Box Ravine, they met up with Paul and Gamay, who had the prisoners sitting in the shade, quiet and obedient.
“You two would make good jailers,” Kurt said.
“Guard duty is boring,” Gamay said.
With the situation stable, Kurt reached out to Rudi.
“Various authorities are on their way,” Rudi told them over the satellite phone.
“Late as usual,” Kurt said. “What happened to our backup?”
“A terrorist attack on the Glen Canyon Dam took priority,” Rudi explained. “The Army Rangers who were supposed to help you ended up flying north and thwarting it. Three of the four perpetrators were killed, the other one is missing and presumed dead.”
“Barlow mentioned having a trick up his sleeve,” Kurt said. “That must have been it.”
“If so, it was an effective and costly diversion,” Rudi said. “Multiple explosions and a group who infiltrated the control room. They opened all the floodgates and tricked the authorities into thinking they’d laced the place with nerve gas. Turned out it was harmless colored vapor. Unfortunately, it took a while to confirm all that and shut off the flow of water.”
“Should we start building an ark down here?”
Rudi didn’t sound concerned. “Based on the rate of discharge, you should see a five- to ten-foot rise in the Colorado River about an hour from now. It’ll pass by nightfall.”
“We’ll be high and dry up here,” Joe pointed out.
As Kurt and Rudi finished their conversation, a helicopter carrying U.S. Marshals landed nearby. A second helicopter with members of the Arizona National Guard arrived shortly thereafter. A third helicopter with agents from the FBI was reported to be on the way.
“This little strip of land is going to be busier than O’Hare Airport before too long,” he told the others. “I’d like to tie up one more loose end before we’re ordered to leave.”
“What might that be?” Joe asked.
“Professor Cross,” Kurt said. “He’s missing and unaccounted for.”
Kurt, Joe and Morgan entered the cave and spread out. Searching in a grid pattern, it wasn’t long before they found the professor. He was in the deepest part of the treasure heap, sitting propped up against a wall. Blood from a wound had soaked his shirt. His eyes were wide open, staring forward. Of all things, a file cabinet stood open beside him and a stack of bound papers rested in his lap.
Morgan crouched beside the professor, felt for a pulse and then gently closed his eyes. “He’s gone,” she said, telling them what they already knew. “I would have said he died happy to have found the treasure, but there’s more to this than you’ve let on. Why is there a filing cabinet in here? What are all these papers?”
“The secret of the cave,” Kurt replied cryptically, “the secret the Granzinis killed their partners for.” Kurt waved his flashlight around, pointing out the treasures and idols. “All of this—all the artifacts, all the mummies, all the gold and jewels—all of it is fake.”
To prove his point, Kurt reached over to a statue that appeared to be made of marble. With a quick snap he broke the arm off, it crumbling to dust in his hand. “They’re props,” he explained. “Most of them are made from papier-mâché and plaster, balsa wood or tin.”
“Props?”
He nodded. “Elaborate set decorations. Designed and created for a movie that never got made.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.
Joe reached down and pulled the blood-soaked stack of paper from the professor’s hands. “Journey of the Pharaohs,” he said, reading the title. “A Cecil B. DeMille Production.”
“That explains the Kissel,” Joe said. “When we were using it as a mobile shield and battering ram, I noticed a name tag riveted to the instrument panel. That’s Cecil B. DeMille’s car.”
“It was,” Kurt said. “And it’s the only historical treasure in the whole cavern.”
“This is a movie set?” Morgan asked, just to be sure. “You’re telling me we’re standing inside a movie set.”
Kurt nodded again. “According to the FBI files, DeMille came out here to make an epic about the rise of a fictional Pharaoh. A location scout had found this place and determined that it was a perfect stand-in for Egypt. The ravine outside doubled for the Valley of the Kings. The Colorado River stood in for the Nile. They used this cave as the interior set for several different locations, including a tomb, a temple and the Pharaoh’s palace. That’s why the ground is so flat. Because they had it paved. That’s why there are ramps and platforms all over the place. So they could move cameras, lights and equipment around to set up different shots, make the same cave look like different places.”
“I suppose that’s why half the cave is filled with worthless furniture and trinkets,” Morgan said.
“Set decoration,” Kurt said.
“What happened?” Joe asked. “I’ve seen every old movie ever made, but I’ve never even heard of this one.”
“Halfway through the shoot, one of the producers got caught in a financial scandal,” Kurt said. “The picture lost its funding and production shut down. Instead of hauling all this stuff back to Hollywood, they stored it here, hoping DeMille could find new backers. Unfortunately for them, the canyon got a lot of snow that winter, causing landslides, including the one that buried the entrance to the cave. The studio ended up writing the whole thing off and DeMille moved on.”
“What about the archeologists?” Joe asked. “You said this place was discovered back in the twenties.”
“The archeologists were partners of the Granzini family,” Kurt explained, “smuggling artifacts f
rom Africa to buyers in Europe. They came here to follow up on the old rumors of Egyptian relics in the canyon and were led to this cave by a local guide. They burrowed inside and explored a small fraction of it, using only dim oil lanterns. They saw what we saw, the mother lode of Egyptian artifacts, which they immediately informed the Granzinis about.”
“That must have sparked a celebration,” Joe said.
“A short-lived one,” Kurt pointed out. “The Granzinis believed the story—they had no reason not to—reached out to their old contacts, urging their favorite European collectors to get their checkbooks ready. It wasn’t until the patriarch of the Granzini family came here in person that the archeologists discovered the truth.”
“By truth, you mean the Hollywood fabrication?” Joe suggested.
“Exactly,” Kurt said. “And that caused a conflict. An argument blew up about what they should do. The Granzinis had already made a lot of promises. They figured they could keep the lie going and profit from it. The archeologists wanted to expose the truth, which they knew would come out eventually. The Granzinis ended up killing them to keep them from talking.”
“How were they supposed to make money from this?” Morgan asked. “Photos are one thing. But anybody who received a balsa wood statue would know instantly that they’d been had.”
“The plan was the same as it always had been,” Kurt said. “Find artifacts in backwater places, pretend they were discovered here. The Granzinis were masters of sourcing run-of-the-mill Egyptian artifacts from around the globe and then claiming they came from famous tombs. They advertised this as ‘The rarest and most exclusive of collections.’ It was a gold mine just waiting to be tapped. They just needed the rumor to remain alive until they’d milked it for all it was worth.”
“But what about the boats that DeMars found off the coast of France?” Morgan asked.
“He’s the only one that ever saw them,” Kurt said. “There was never any proof. Most likely because there were never any boats to begin with. Even his children and grandchildren seem to doubt they existed.”
Journey of the Pharaohs - NUMA Files Series 17 (2020) Page 31
