Inca Gold

He began with the first-aid kit. After liberally soaking the shoulder wound with disinfectant, he awkwardly applied a crude bandage on it inside his tattered wet suit. Knowing it was useless to bind fractured ribs, he gritted his teeth, set his wrist and taped it.

The coffee had retained most of its heat inside the thermos, and he downed half of it before attacking the sandwiches. No medium-rare porterhouse steak, doused and flamed in cognac, tasted better than this bologna, Pitt decided. Then and there he vowed never to complain or make jokes about bologna sandwiches ever again.

After a brief rest, a goodly measure of his strength returned and he felt refreshed enough to resecure the equipment and break open Duncan's plastic dye container. He scattered Fluorescein Yellow with Optical Brightener into the water. Under the beam of his flashlight he watched until the dye stained the river with a vivid yellow luminescence. He stood and watched until the current swept it out of sight.

"That should tell them I'm coming," he thought aloud.

He pushed the remains of the Hovercraft out of the shallows. Favoring his injuries, he awkwardly climbed aboard and paddled one-handed into the mainstream.

As the partially deflated Wallowing Windbag caught the current and drifted downriver, Pitt leaned back comfortably and began humming the tune to "Up a Lazy River in the Noonday Sun."

Informed of up-to-the-minute events from california by Admiral Sandecker and agents Gaskill and Ragsdale in El Paso, the secretary of state decided to sidestep diplomatic protocol and personally call the President of Mexico. He briefed him on the far-reaching theft and smuggling conspiracy engineered by the Zolars.

"An incredible story," said Mexico's President.

"But true," the secretary of state assured him.

"I can only regret the incident occurred, and I promise my government's full cooperation with the investigation."

"If you'll forgive me, Mr. President, I do have a wish list of requests."

"Let's hear them."

Within two hours the border between Mexico and California was reopened. The government officials who were suckered by the Zolars into jeopardizing their positions by false promises of incredible riches were rounded up.

Fernando Matos and Police Comandante Rafael Cortina were among the first to be arrested by Mexican Justice investigators.

At the same time, vessels of the Mexican navy attached to the Sea of Cortez were alerted and ordered to sea.

Lieutenant Carlos Hidalgo peered up at a squawking gull before turning his attention back to the straight line of the sea across the horizon. "Are we searching for anything special, or just searching?" he casually asked his ship's captain.

"Looking for bodies," Commander Miguel Maderas replied. He lowered his binoculars, revealing a round, friendly face under long, thick black hair. His teeth were large and very white and almost always set in a Burt Lancaster smile. He was short and heavy and solid as a rock.

Hidalgo was a sharp contrast to Maderas. Tall and lean with a narrow face, he looked like a well-tanned cadaver. "Victims of a boating accident?"

"No, divers who drowned in an underground river."

Hidalgo's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Not another gringo folktale about fishermen and divers being swept under the desert and disgorged into the Gulf?"

"Who is to say?" Maderas replied with a shrug. "All I know is that orders from our fleet headquarters in Ensenada directed our ship and crew to patrol the waters on the northern end of the Gulf between San Felipe and Puerto Penasco for any sign of bodies."

"A large area for only one ship to cover."

"We'll be joined by two Class P patrol boats out of Santa Rosalia, and all fishing boats in the area have been alerted to report any sighting of human remains."

"If the sharks get them," Hildago muttered pessimistically, "there won't be anything left to find."

Maderas leaned back against the railing of the bridge wing, lit a cigarette, and gazed toward the stern of his patrol vessel. It had been modified from a 67-meter (220 foot) U.S. Navy minesweeper and had no official name other than the big G-21 painted on the bow. But the crew unaffectionately called her El Porqueria ("piece of trash") because she once broke down at sea and was towed to port by a fishing boat-- a humiliation the crew never forgave her for.

But she was a sturdy ship, quick to answer the helm, and stable in heavy seas. The crews of more than one fishing boat and private yacht owed their lives to Maderas and El Porqueria.

As executive officer of the ship, Hidalgo had the duty of plotting a search grid. When he was finished poring over a large nautical chart of the northern Gulf, he gave the coordinates to the helmsman. Then the dreary part of the voyage began, plowing down one lane and then reversing course as if mowing a lawn.

The first line was run at eight o'clock in the morning. At two o'clock in the afternoon a lookout on the bow yelled out.

"Object in the water!"

"Whereaway?" shouted Hildago.

"A hundred and fifty meters off the port bow."

Maderas lifted his binoculars and peered over the blue green water. He easily spotted a body floating face down as it rose on the crest of a wave. "I have it." He stepped to the wheelhouse door and nodded at the helmsman. "Bring us alongside and have a crew stand by to retrieve." Then he turned to Hildago. "Stop engines when we close to fifty meters."

The foaming bow wave faded to a gentle ripple, the heavy throb of the twin diesels died to a muted rumble as the patrol vessel slipped alongside the body rolling in the waves. From his view on the bridge wing, Maderas could see the bloated and distorted features had been battered to pulp. Small wonder the sharks didn't find it appetizing, he thought.

He stared at Hidalgo and smiled. "We didn't need a week after all."

"We got lucky," Hidalgo mumbled.

With no hint of reverence for the dead, two crewmen jabbed a boat hook into the floating corpse and pulled it toward a stretcher, constructed from wire mesh, that was lowered into the water. The body was guided into the stretcher and raised onto the deck. The ghastly, mangled flesh barely resembled what had once been a human being. Maderas could hear more than one of his crew retching into the sea before the corpse was zipped into a body bag.

"Well, at least whoever he was did us a favor," said Hidalgo.

Maderas looked at him. "Oh, and what was that?"

Hidalgo grinned unfeelingly. "He wasn't in the water long enough to smell."

Three hours later, the patrol vessel entered the breakwater of San Felipe and tied up alongside the Alhambra.

As Pitt had suspected, after reaching shore in the life raft, Gordo Padilla and his crew had gone home to their wives and girlfriends and celebrated their narrow escape by taking a three-day siesta. Then, under the watchful eye of Cortina's police, Padilla rounded everyone up and hitched a ride on a fishing boat back to the ferry. Once on board they raised steam in the engines and pumped out the water taken on when Amaru opened the seacocks. When her keel was unlocked by the silt and her engines were fired to life, Padilla and his crew sailed the Alhambra back to San Felipe and tied her to the dock.

To Maderas and Hidalgo, looking down from their bridge, the forward car deck of the ferry looked like the accident ward of a hospital.

Loren Smith was comfortably dressed in shorts and halter top and exhibited her bruises and a liberal assortment of small bandages over her bare shoulders, midriff, and legs. Giordino sat in a wheelchair with both legs propped ahead of him in plaster casts.

Missing was Rudi Gunn, who was in stable condition in the El Centro Regional Medical Center just north of Calexico, after having survived a badly bruised stomach, six broken fingers, and a hairline fracture of the skull.

Admiral Sandecker and Peter Duncan, the hydrologist, also stood on the deck of the ferryboat, along with Shannon Kelsey, Miles Rodgers, and a contingent of local police and the Baja California Norte state coroner. Their faces were grim as the crew of the navy patrol ship lowered the stretcher containing the body onto the Alhambra's deck.

Before the coroner and his assistant could lift the body bag onto a gurney, Giordino pushed his wheelchair up to the stretcher. "I would like to see the body," he said grimly.

"He is not a pretty sight, senor," Hidalgo warned him from the deck of his ship.

The coroner hesitated, not sure if under the law he could permit foreigners to view a dead body.

Giordino stared coldly at the coroner. "Do you want an identification or not?"

The coroner, a little man with bleary eyes and a great bush of gray hair, barely knew enough English to understand Giordino, but he nodded silently to his assistant who pulled down the zipper.

Loren paled and turned away, but Sandecker moved close beside Giordino.

"Is it. . ."

Giordino shook his head. "No, it's not Dirk. It's that psycho creep, Tupac Amaru."

"Good Lord, he looks as if he was churned through an empty cement mixer."

"Almost as bad," said Duncan, shuddering at the ghastly sight. "The rapids must have beat him against every rock between here and Cerro el Capirote."

"Couldn't happen to a nicer guy," Giordino muttered acidly.

"Somewhere between the treasure cavern and the Gulf," said Duncan, "the river must erupt into a rampage."

"No sign of another body?" Sandecker asked Hidalgo.

"Nothing, senor. This is the only one we found, but we have orders to continue the search for the second man."

Sandecker turned away from Amaru. "If Dirk hasn't been cast out into the Gulf by now, he must still be underground."

"Maybe he was washed up on a beach or a sandbank," offered Shannon hopefully. "He might still be alive."

"Can't you launch an expedition down the subterranean river to find him?" Rodgers asked the admiral.

Sandecker shook his head slowly. "I won't send a team of men to certain death."

"The admiral is right," said Giordino. "There could be a dozen cascades like the one Pitt and I went over. Even with a Hovercraft like the Wallowing Windbag, it's extremely doubtful anyone can gain safe passage through a hundred kilometers of water peppered with rapids and rocks."

"If that isn't enough," added Duncan, "there's the submerged caverns to get through before surfacing in the Gulf. Without an ample air supply, drowning would be inescapable."

How far do you think he might drift?" Sandecker asked him.

"From the treasure chamber?"

"Yes."

Duncan thought a moment. "Pitt might have a chance if he managed to reach a dry shore within five hundred meters. We could tie a man on a guideline and safely send him downstream that far, and then pull them back against the current."

"And if no sign of Pitt is found before the guideline runs out?" asked Giordino.

Duncan shrugged solemnly. "Then if his body doesn't surface in the Gulf, we'll never find him."

"Is there any hope for Dirk?" Loren pleaded. "Any hope at all?"

Duncan looked from Giordino to Sandecker before answering. All eyes reflected abject hopelessness and their faces were etched with despair. He turned back to Loren and said gently, "I can't lie to you, Miss Smith." The words appeared to cause him great discomfort. "Dirk's chances are as good as any badly injured man's of reaching Lake Mead outside of Las Vegas after being cast adrift in the Colorado River at the entrance to the Grand Canyon."

The words came like a physical blow to Loren. She began to sway on her feet. Giordino reached out and grabbed her arm. It seemed that her heart stopped, and she whispered, "To me, Dirk Pitt will never die."

"The fish are a little shy today," said Joe Hagen to his wife, Claire.

She was lying on her belly on the roof of the boat's main cabin, barely wearing a purple bikini with the halter untied, reading a magazine. She pushed her sunglasses on top of her head and laughed. "You couldn't catch a fish if it jumped up and landed in the boat."

He laughed. "Just wait and see."

"The only fish you'll find this far north in the Gulf is shrimp," she nagged.

The Hagens were in their early sixties and in reasonably good shape. As with most women her age, Claire's bottom had spread and her waist carried a little flab, but her face was fairly free of wrinkles and her breasts were still large and firm. Joe was a big man who fought a losing battle with a paunch that had grown into a well-rounded stomach. Together they ran a family auto dealership in Anaheim specializing in clean, low-mileage used cars.

After Joe bought a 15-meter (50-foot) oceangoing ketch, and named it The First Attempt, out of Newport Beach, California, they began leaving the management of their business to their two sons. They liked to sail down the coast and around Cabo San Lucas into the Sea of Cortez, spending the fall months cruising back and forth between picturesque ports nestled on the shores.

This was the first time they had sailed this far north. As he lazily trolled for whatever fish took a fancy to his bait, Joe kept half an eye on the fathometer as he idled along on the engine with the sails furled. The tides at this end of the Gulf could vary as much as 7 meters (23 feet) and he didn't want to run on an uncharted sandbar.

He relaxed as the stylus showed a depression under the keel to be over 50 meters (164 feet) deep. A puzzling feature, he thought. The seafloor on the north end of the Gulf was uniformly shallow, seldom going below 10 meters at high tide. The bottom was usually a mixture of silt and sand. The fathometer read the underwater depression as uneven hard rock.

"Aha, they laughed at all the great geniuses," said Joe as he felt a tug on his trolling line. He reeled it in and discovered a California corbina about the length of his arm on the hook.

Claire shaded her eyes with one hand. "He's too pretty to keep. Throw the poor thing back."

"That's odd."

"What's odd?"

"All the other corbinas I've ever caught had dark spots on a white body. This sucker is colored like a fluorescent canary."

She adjusted her halter and came astern to have a closer look at his catch.

"Now this is really weird," said Joe, holding up one hand and displaying palm and fingers that were stained a bright yellow. "If I weren't a sane man, I'd say somebody dyed this fish."

"He sparkles under the sun as if his scales were spangles," said Claire.

Joe peered over the side of the boat. "The water in this one particular area looks like it was squeezed out of a lemon."

"Could be a good fishing hole."

"You may be right, old girl." Joe moved past her to the bow and threw out the anchor. "This looks as good a place as any to spend the afternoon angling for a big one."

There was no rest for the weary. Pitt went over four more cataracts. Providentially, none had a steep, yawning drop like the one that almost killed him and Giordino. The steepest drop he encountered was 2 meters (6.5 feet). The partially deflated Wallowing Windbag bravely plunged over the sharp ledge and successfully ran an obstacle course through rocks hiding under roaring sheets of froth and spray before continuing her voyage to oblivion.

It was the boiling stretches of rapids that proved brutal. Only after they extracted their toll in battering torment could Pitt relax for a short time in the forgiving, unobstructed stretches of calm water that followed. The bruising punishment made his wounds feel as if they were being stabbed by little men with pitchforks. But the pain served a worthy purpose by sharpening his senses. He cursed the river, certain it was saving the worst for last before smashing his desperate gamble to escape.

The paddle was torn from his hand, but it proved a small loss. With 50 kilograms (110 pounds) of equipment in a collapsing boat in addition to him, it was useless to attempt a sharp course change to dodge rocks that loomed up in the dark, especially while trying to paddle with one arm. He was too weak to do little more than feebly grasp the support straps attached to the interior of the hull and let the current take him where it might.

Two more float cells were ruptured after colliding with sharp rocks that sliced through the thin skin of the hull, and Pitt found himself lying half-covered with water in what had become little more than a collapsed air bag. Surprisingly, he kept a death grip on the flashlight with his right hand. But he had completely drained three of the air tanks and most of the fourth while dragging the sagging little vessel through several fully submerged galleries before reaching open caverns on the other side and reinflating the remaining float cells.

Pitt never suffered from claustrophobia but it would have come easy for most people in the black never-ending void. He avoided any thoughts of panic by singing and talking to himself during his wild ride through the unfriendly water. He shone the light on his hands and feet. They were shriveled like prunes after the long hours of immersion.

"With all this water, dehydration is the least of my problems," he muttered to the dank, uncaring rock.

He floated over transparent pools that dropped down shafts of solid rock so deep the beam of his lamp could not touch bottom. He toyed with the thought of tourists coming through this place. A pity people can't take the tour and view these crystallized Gothic caverns, he thought. Perhaps now that the river was known to exist, a tunnel might be excavated to bring in visitors to study the geological marvels.

He had tried to conserve his three flashlights, but one by one their batteries gave out and he dropped them over the side. He estimated that only twenty minutes of light remained in his last lamp before the Stygian gloom returned for good.

Running rapids in a raft under the sun and blue sky is called white-water rafting, his exhausted mind deliberated. Down here they could call it black-water rafting. The idea sounded very funny and for some reason he laughed. His laughter carried into a vast side chamber, echoing in a hundred eerie sounds. If he hadn't known it came from him, it would have curdled his blood.

It no longer seemed possible that there could be any place but this nightmare maze of caverns creeping tortuously end on end through such an alien environment. He had lost all sense of direction. "Bearings" was only a word from a dictionary. His compass was made useless by an abundance of iron ore in the rock. He felt so disoriented and removed from the surface world above that he wondered if he had finally crossed the threshold into lunacy. The only breath of sanity was fueled by the stupendous sights revealed by the light from his lamp.

He forced himself to regain control by playing mind games. He tried to memorize details of each new cavern and gallery, of each bend and turn of the river, so he could describe them to others after he escaped to sunlight. But there were so many of them his numbed mind found it impossible to retain more than a few vivid images. Not only that, he found he had to concentrate on keeping the Windbag afloat. Another float cell was hissing its buoyancy away through a puncture.

How far have I come? he wondered dully. How much farther to the end? His fogged mind was wandering. He had to get a grip on himself. He was beyond hunger, no thoughts of thick steaks or prime rib with a bottle of beer flooded through his mind. His battered and spent body had given far more than he expected from it.

The shrunken hull of the Hovercraft struck the cavern's roof which arched downward into the water. The craft revolved in circles, bumping against the rock until it worked off to one side of the mainstream of the river and gently grounded on a shoal. Pitt lay in the pool that half-filled the interior, his legs dangling over the sides, too played out to don the last air tank, deflate the craft, and convey it through the flooded gallery ahead.

He couldn't pass out. Not now. He had too far to go. He took several deep breaths and drank a small amount of water. He groped for the thermos, untied it from a hook and finished the last of the coffee. The caffeine helped revive him a bit. He flipped the thermos into the river and watched it float against the rock, too buoyant to drift through to the other side.

The lamp was so weak it barely threw a beam. He switched it off to save what little juice was left in the batteries, lay back, and stared into the suffocating blackness.

Nothing hurt anymore. His nerve endings had shut down and his body was numb. He must have been almost two pints low on blood, he figured. He hated to face the thought of failure. For a few minutes he refused to believe he couldn't make it back to the world above. The faithful Wallowing Windbag had taken him this far, but if it lost one more float cell he would have to abandon it and carry on alone. He began concentrating his waning energies on the effort that still lay ahead.

Something jogged his memory. He smelled something. What was it they said about smells? They can trigger past events in your mind. He breathed in deeply, trying not to let the scent get away before he could recall why it was so familiar. He licked his lips and recognized a taste that hadn't been there before. Salt. And then it washed over him.

The smell of the sea.

He had finally reached the end of the subterranean river system that climaxed in the Gulf.

Pitt popped open his eyes and raised his hand until it almost touched the tip of his nose. He couldn't distinguish detail, but there was a vague shadow that shouldn't have been there in the eternal dark of his subterranean world. He stared down into the water and detected a murky reflection. Light was seeping in from the passage ahead.

The discovery that daylight was within reach raised immensely his hopes of surviving.

He climbed out of the Wallowing Windbag and considered the two worst hazards he now faced-- length of dive to the surface and decompression. He checked the pressure gauge that ran. from the manifold of the air tank. Eight hundred fifty pounds per square inch. Enough air for a run of maybe 300 meters (984 feet), providing he stayed calm, breathed easily, and didn't exert himself. If surface air was much beyond that, he wouldn't have to worry about the other problem, decompression. He'd drown long before acquiring the notorious bends.

Periodic checks of his depth gauge during his long journey had told him the pressure inside most of the airfilled caverns ran only slightly higher than the outside atmospheric pressure. A concern but not a great fear. And he had seldom exceeded 30 meters of depth when diving under a flooded overhang that divided two open galleries. If faced with the same situation, he would have to be careful to make a controlled 18-meter (60-foot) per-minute ascent to avoid decompression sickness.

Whatever the obstacles, he could neither go back nor stay where he was. He had to go on. There was no other decision to make. This would be the final test of what little strength and resolve was still left in him.

He wasn't dead yet. Not until he breathed the last tiny bit of oxygen in his air tank. And then he would go on until his lungs burst.

He checked to see that the manifold valves were open and the low-pressure hose was connected to his buoyancy compensator. Next, he strapped on his tank and buckled the quick-release snaps. A quick breath to be sure his regulator was functioning properly and he was ready.

Without his lost dive mask, his vision would be blurred, but all he had to do was swim toward the light. He clamped his teeth on the mouthpiece of his breathing regulator, gathered his nerve, and counted to three.

It was time to go, and he dove into the river for the last time.

As he gently kicked his bare feet he'd have given his soul for his lost fins. Down, down the overhang sloped ahead of him. He passed thirty meters, then forty. He began to worry after he passed fifty meters. When diving on compressed air, there is an invisible barrier between sixty and eighty meters. Beyond that a diver begins to feel like a drunk and loses control of his mental faculties.

His air tank made an unearthly screeching sound as it scraped against the rock above him. Because he had dropped his weight belt after his near-death experience over the great waterfall, and because of the neoprene in his shredded wet suit, he was diving with positive buoyancy. He doubled over and dove deeper to avoid the contact.

Pitt thought the plunging rock would never end. His depth gauge read 75 meters (246 feet) before the current carried him beneath and around the tip of the overhang. Now the upward slope was gradual. Not the ideal situation. He'd have preferred a direct ascent to the surface to cut the distance and save his dwindling air supply.

The light grew steadily brighter until he could read the numbers of his dive watch without the aid of the dying beam from the lamp. The hands on the orange dial read ten minutes after five o'clock. Was it early morning or afternoon? How long since he dove into the river? He couldn't remember if it was ten minutes or fifty. His mind sluggishly puzzled over the answers.

The clear, transparent emerald green of the river water turned more blue and opaque. The current was fading and his ascent slowed. There was a distant shimmer above him. At last the surface itself appeared.

He was in the Gulf. He had exited the river passage and was swimming in the Sea of Cortez. Pitt looked up and saw a shadow looming far in the distance. One final check of his air pressure gauge. The needle quivered on zero. His air was almost gone.

Rather than suck in a huge gulp, he used what little was left to partially inflate his buoyancy compensator so it would gently lift him to the surface if he blacked out from lack of oxygen.

One last inhalation that barely puffed out his lungs and he relaxed, exhaling small breaths to compensate for the declining pressure as he rose from the depths. The hiss of his air bubbles leaving the regulator diminished as his lungs ran dry.

The surface appeared so close he could reach out and touch it when his lungs began to burn. It was a spiteful illusion. The waves were still 20 meters (66 feet) away.

He put some strength into his kick as a huge elastic band seemed to tighten around his chest. Soon, the desire for air became his only world as darkness started seeping around the edges of his eyes.

Pitt became entangled in something that hindered his ascent. His vision, blurred without a dive mask, failed to distinguish what was binding him. Instinctively, he thrashed clumsily in an attempt to free himself. A great roaring sound came from inside his brain as it screamed in protest. But in that instant before blackness shut down his mind, he sensed that his body was being pulled toward the surface.

"I've hooked a big one!" shouted Joe Hagen joyously,

"You got a marlin?" Claire asked excitedly, seeing her husband's fishing pole bent like a question mark.

"He's not giving much fight for a marlin," Joe panted as he feverishly turned the crank on his reel. "Feels more like a dead weight."

"Maybe you dragged him to death."

"Get the gaff. He's almost to the surface."

Claire snatched a long-handled gaff from two hooks and pointed it over the side of the yacht like a spear. "I see something," she cried. "It looks big and black."

Then she screamed in horror.

Pitt was a millimeter away from unconsciousness when his head broke into a trough between the waves. He spit out his regulator and drew in a deep breath. The sun's reflection on the water blinded eyes that hadn't seen light in almost two days. He squinted rapturously at the sudden kaleidoscope of colors.

Relief, joy of living, fulfillment of a great accomplishment-- they flooded together.

A woman's scream pierced his ears and he looked up, startled to see the Capri-blue hull of a yacht rising beside him and two people staring over the side, their faces pale as death. It was then that he realized he was entangled in fishing line. Something slapped against his leg. He gripped the line and pulled a small skipjack tuna, no longer than his foot, out of the water. The poor thing had a huge hook protruding from its mouth.

Pitt gently gripped the fish under one armpit and eased out the hook with his good hand. Then he stared into the little fish's beady eyes.

"Look, Toto," he said jubilantly, "we're back in Kansas!"

Commander Maderas and his crew had moved out of San Felipe and resumed their search pattern when the call came through from the Hagens.

"Sir," said his radioman, "I just received an urgent message from the yacht The First Attempt."

"What does it say?"

"The skipper, an American by the name of Joseph Hagen, reports picking up a man he caught while fishing."

Maderas frowned. "He must mean he snagged a dead body while trolling."

"No, sir, he was quite definite. The man he caught is alive."

Maderas was puzzled. "Can't be the one we're searching for. Not after viewing the other one. Have any boats in the area reported a crew member lost overboard?"

The radioman shook his head. "I've heard nothing."

"What is The First Attempt's position?"

"Twelve nautical miles to the northwest of us."

Maderas stepped into the wheelhouse and nodded at Hidalgo. "Set a course to the northwest and watch for an American yacht." Then he turned to his radioman. "Call this Joseph Hagen for more details on the man they pulled from the water and tell him to remain at his present position. We'll rendezvous in approximately thirty-five minutes."

Hidalgo looked at him across the chart table. "What do you think?"

Maderas smiled. "As a good Catholic, I must believe what the church tells me about miracles. But this is one I have to see for myself."

The fleet of yachts and the many boats of the Mexican fishing fleets that ply the Sea of Cortez have their own broadcast network. There is considerable bantering among the brotherhood of boat owners, similar to the old neighborhood telephone party lines. The chatter includes weather reports, invitations to seaboard social parties, the latest news from home ports, and even a rundown of items for sale or swap.

The word went up and down the Gulf about the owners of The First Attempt catching a human on a fishing line. Interest was fueled by those who embellished the story before passing it on through the Baja net. Yacht owners who tuned in late heard a wild tale about the Hagens catching a killer whale and finding a live man inside.

Some of the larger oceangoing vessels were equipped with radios capable of reaching stations in the United States. Soon reports were rippling out from Baja to as far away as Washington.

The Hagen broadcast was picked up by a Mexican navy radio station in La Paz. The radio operator on duty asked for confirmation, but Hagen was too busy jabbering away with other yacht owners and failed to reply. Thinking it was another of the wild parties in the boating social swing, he noted it in his log and concentrated on official navy signals.

When he went off duty twenty minutes later, he casually mentioned it to the officer in charge of the station.

"It sounded pretty loco," he explained. "The report came in English. Probably an intoxicated gringo playing games over his radio."

"Better send a patrol boat to make an inspection," said the officer. "I'll inform the Northern District Fleet Headquarters and see who we have in the area."

Fleet headquarters did not have to be informed. Maderas had already alerted them that he was heading at full speed toward The First Attempt. Headquarters had also received an unexpected signal from the Mexican chief of naval operations, ordering the commanding officer to rush the search and extend every effort for a successful rescue operation.

Admiral Ricardo Alvarez was having lunch with his wife at the officers' club when an aide hurried to his table with both signals.

"A man caught by a fisherman." Alvarez snorted. "What kind of nonsense is this?"

"That was the message relayed by Commander Maderas of the G-21," replied the aide.

"How soon before Maderas comes in contact with the yacht?"

"He should rendezvous at any moment."

"I wonder why Naval Operations is so involved with an ordinary tourist lost at sea?"

"Word has come down that the President himself is interested in the rescue," said the aide.

Admiral Alvarez gave his wife a sour look. "I knew that damned North American Free Trade Agreement was a mistake. Now we have to kiss up to the Americans every time one of them falls in the Gulf."

So it was that there were more questions than answers when Pitt was transferred from The First Attempt soon after the patrol vessel came alongside. He stood on the deck, partially supported by Hagen, who had stripped off the torn wet suit and lent Pitt a golf shirt and a pair of shorts. Claire had replaced the bandage on his shoulder and taped one over the nasty cut on his forehead.

He shook hands with Joseph Hagen. "I guess I'm the biggest fish you ever caught."

Hagen laughed. "Sure something to tell the grandkids."

Pitt then kissed Claire on the cheek. "Don't forget to send me your recipe for fish chowder. I've never tasted any so good."

"You must have liked it. You put away at least a gallon."

"I'll always be in your debt for saving my life. Thank you."

Pitt turned and was helped into a small launch that ferried him to the patrol boat. As soon as he stepped onto the deck, he was greeted by Maderas and Hidalgo before being escorted to the sick bay by the ship's medical corpsman. Prior to ducking through a hatch, Pitt turned and gave a final wave to the Hagens.

Joe and Claire stood with their arms around each other's waist. Joe turned and looked at his wife with a puzzled expression and said, "I've never caught five fish in my entire life and you can't cook worth sour grapes. What did he mean by your great-tasting fish chowder?"

Claire sighed. "The poor man. He was so hurt and hungry I didn't have the heart to tell him I fed him canned soup doused with brandy."

Curtis Starger got the word in Guaymas that Pitt had been found alive. He was searching the hacienda used by the Zolars. The call came in over his Motorola Iridium satellite phone from his office in Calexico. In an unusual display of teamwork, the Mexican investigative agencies had allowed Starger and his Customs people to probe the buildings and grounds for additional evidence to help convict the family dynasty of art thieves.

Starger and his agents had arrived to find the grounds and airstrip empty of all life. The hacienda was vacant and the pilot of Joseph Zolar's private plane had decided now was a good time to resign. He simply walked through the front gate, took a bus into town, and caught a flight to his home in Houston, Texas.

A search of the hacienda turned up nothing concrete. The rooms had been cleaned of any incriminating evidence. The abandoned plane parked on the airstrip was another matter. Inside, Starger found four crudely carved wooden effigies with childlike faces painted on them.

"What do you make of these?" Starger asked one of the agents, who was an expert in ancient Southwest artifacts.

"They look like some kind of Indian religious symbols."

"Are they made from cottonwood?"

The agent lifted his sunglasses and examined the idols close up. "Yes, I think I can safely say they're carved out of cottonwood."

Starger ran his hand gently over one of the idols. "I have a suspicion these are the sacred idols Pitt was looking for."

Rudi Gunn was told while he was lying in a hospital bed. A nurse entered his room, followed by one of Starger's agents.

"Mr. Gunn. I'm Agent Anthony Di Maggio with the Customs Service. I thought you'd like to know that Dirk Pitt was picked up alive in the Gulf about half an hour ago."

Gunn closed his eyes and sighed with heavy relief. "I knew he'd make it."

"Quite a feat of courage, I hear, swimming over a hundred kilometers through an underground river."

"No one else could have done it."

"I hope the good news will inspire you to become more cooperative," said the nurse, who talked sweetly while carrying a long rectal thermometer.

"Isn't he a good patient?" asked Di Maggio.

"I've tended better."

"I wish to hell you'd give me a pair of pajamas," Gunn said nastily, "instead of this peekaboo, lace-up-the-rear, shorty nightshirt."

"Hospital gowns are designed that way for a purpose," the nurse replied smartly.

"I wish to God you'd tell me what it is."

"I'd better go now and leave you alone," said Di Maggio, beating a retreat. "Good luck on a speedy recovery."

"Thank you for giving me the word on Pitt," Gunn said sincerely.

"Not at all."

"You rest now," ordered the nurse. "I'll be back in an hour with your medication."

True to her word, the nurse returned in one hour on the dot. But the bed was empty. Gunn had fled, wearing nothing but the skimpy little gown and a blanket.

Strangely, those on board the Alhambra were the last to know.

Loren and Sandecker were meeting with Mexican Internal Police investigators beside the Pierce Arrow when news of Pitt's rescue came from the owner of a luxurious powerboat that was tied up at the nearby fuel station. He shouted across the water separating the two vessels.

"Ahoy the ferry!"

Miles Rodgers was standing on the deck by the wheelhouse talking with Shannon and Duncan. He leaned over the railing and shouted back. "What is it?"

"They found your boy!"

The words carried inside the auto deck and Sandecker rushed out onto the open deck. "Say again!" he yelled.

"The owners of a sailing ketch fished a fellow out of the water," the yacht skipper replied. "The Mexican navy reports say it's the guy they were looking for."

Everyone was on an outside deck now. All afraid to ask the question that might have an answer they dreaded to hear.

Giordino accelerated his wheelchair up to the loading ramp as if it were a super fuel dragster. He apprehensively yelled over to the powerboat. "Was he alive?"

"The Mexicans said he was in pretty poor shape, but came around after the boat owner's wife pumped some soup into him."

"Pitt's alive!" gasped Shannon.

Duncan shook his head in disbelief. "I can't believe he made it through to the Gulf!"

"I do," murmured Loren, her face in her hands, the tears flowing. The dignity and the poise seemed to crumble. She leaned down and hugged Giordino, her cheeks wet and flushed red beneath a new tan. "I knew he couldn't die."

Suddenly, the Mexican investigators were forgotten as if they were miles away and everyone was shouting and hugging each other. Sandecker, normally taciturn and reserved, let out a resounding whoop and rushed to the wheelhouse, snatched up the Iridium phone and excitedly called the Mexican Navy Fleet Command for more information.

Duncan frantically began poring over his hydrographic charts of the desert water tables, impatient to learn what data Pitt had managed to accumulate during the incredible passage through the underwater river system.

Shannon and Miles celebrated by breaking out a bottle of cheap champagne they had found in the back of the galley's refrigerator, and passing out glasses. Miles reflected genuine joy at the news, but Shannon's eyes seemed unusually thoughtful. She stared openly at Loren, as a curious envy bloomed inside her that she couldn't believe existed. She slowly became aware that perhaps she had made a mistake by not displaying more compassion toward Pitt.

"That damned guy is like the bad penny that always turns up," said Giordino, fighting to control his emotions.

Loren looked at him steadily. "Did Dirk tell you he asked me to marry him?"

"No, but I'm not surprised. He thinks a lot of you."

"But you don't think it's a good idea, do you?"

Giordino slowly shook his head. "Forgive me if I say a union between you two would not be made in heaven."

"We're too headstrong and independent for one another. Is that what you mean?"

"There's that, all right. You and he are like express trains racing along parallel tracks, occasionally meeting in stations but eventually heading for different destinations."

She squeezed his hand. "I thank you for being candid."

"What do I know about relationships?" He laughed. "I never last with a woman more than two weeks."

Loren looked into Giordino's eyes. "There is something you're not telling me."

Giordino stared down at the deck planking. "Women seem to be intuitive about such things."

"Who was she?" Loren asked hesitantly.

"Her name was Summer," replied Giordino honestly. "She died fifteen years ago in the sea off Hawaii."

"The Pacific Vortex affair. I remember him telling me about it."

"He went crazy trying to save her, but she was lost."

"And he still carries her in his memory," said Loren.

Giordino nodded. "He never talks about her, but he often gets a faraway look in his eyes when he sees a woman who resembles her."

"I've seen that look on more than one occasion," Loren said, her voice melancholy.

"He can't go on forever longing for a ghost," said Giordino earnestly. "We all have an image of a lost love who has to be put to rest someday."

Loren had never seen the wisecracking Giordino this wistful before. "Do you have a ghost?"

He looked at her and smiled. "One summer, when I was nineteen, I saw a girl riding a bicycle along a sidewalk on Balboa Island in Southern California. She wore brief white shorts and a soft green blouse tied around her midriff. Her honey-blond hair was in a long ponytail. Her legs and arms were tanned mahogany. I wasn't close enough to see the color of her eyes, but I somehow knew they had to be blue. She had the look of a free spirit with a warm sense of humor. There isn't a day that goes by I don't recall her image."

"You didn't go after her?" Loren asked in mild surprise.

"Believe it or not, I was very shy in those days. I walked the same sidewalk every day for a month, hoping to spot her again. But she never showed. She was probably vacationing with her parents and left for home soon after our paths crossed."

"That's sad," said Loren.

"Oh, I don't know." Giordino laughed suddenly. "We might have married, had ten kids and found we hated each other."

"To me, Pitt is like your lost love. An illusion I can never quite hold on to."

"He'll change," Giordino said sympathetically. "All men mellow with age."

Loren smiled faintly and shook her head. "Not the Dirk Pitts of this world. They're driven by an inner desire to solve mysteries and challenge the unknown. The last thing any of them wants is to grow old with the wife and kids and die in a nursing home."

The small port of San Felipe wore a festive air. The dock was crowded with people. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of excitement as the patrol boat neared the entrance to the breakwaters forming the harbor.

Maderas turned to Pitt. "Quite a reception."

Pitt's eyes narrowed against the sun. "Is it some sort of local holiday?"

"News of your remarkable journey through the earth has drawn them."

"You've got to be kidding," said Pitt in honest surprise.

"No, senor. Because of your discovery of the river flowing below the desert, you've become a hero to every farmer and rancher from here to Arizona who struggles to survive in a harsh wasteland." He nodded at two vans with technicians unloading television camera equipment. "That's why you've become big news."

"Oh, God." Pitt groaned. "All I want is a soft bed to sleep in for three days."

Pitt's mental and physical condition had improved considerably upon receiving word over the ship's radio from Admiral Sandecker that Loren, Rudi, and Al were alive, if slightly the worse for wear. Sandecker also brought him up to date on Cyrus Sarason's death at the hands of Billy Yuma and the capture of Zolar and Oxley, along with Huascar's treasure, by Gaskill and Ragsdale with the help of Henry and Micki Moore.

There was hope for the little people after all, Pitt thought stoically.

It seemed like an hour, though it was only a few minutes before the Porqueria tied up to the Alhambra for the second time that day. A large paper sign was unfolded across the upper passenger deck of the ferryboat, the letters still dripping fresh paint. It read, WELCOME BACK FROM THE DEAD.

On the auto deck a Mexican mariachi street band was lined up, playing and singing a tune that seemed familiar. Pitt leaned over the railing of the patrol boat, cocked an ear, and threw back his head in laughter. He then doubled over with pain as his merriment caused a burst of fire inside his rib cage. Giordino had pulled off the ultimate coup.

"Do you know the song they're playing?" asked Maderas, mildly alarmed at Pitt's strange display of mirth and agony.

"I recognize the tune, but not the words," Pitt gasped through the hurt. "They're singing in Spanish."

Miralos andando

Vealos andando

Lleva a tu novia favorita, tu companero real

Bajate a la represa, dije la represa

Juntate con ese gentio andando, oiga la musica y la cancion

Es simplemente magnifico camarada, esperando en la represa

Esperando por el Roberto E. Lee.

"Miralos andando," repeated Maderas, confused. "What do they mean, `Go to the dam'?"

"Levee," Pitt guessed. "The opening words of the song are, `Go down to the levee.' "

As the trumpets blared, the guitars strummed, and the seven throats of the band warbled out a mariachi version of "Waiting for the Robert E. Lee," Loren stood among the throng that had mobbed on board the ferry and waved wildly. She could see Pitt search the crowd until he found her and happily waved back.

She saw the dressing wrapped around his head, the left arm in a sling, and the cast on one wrist. In his borrowed shorts and golf shirt he looked out of place among the uniformed crew of the Mexican navy. At first glance, he appeared amazingly fit for a man who had survived a journey through hell, purgatory, and a black abyss. But Loren knew Pitt was a master at covering up exhaustion and pain. She could see them in his eyes.

Pitt spotted Admiral Sandecker standing behind Giordino in his wheelchair. His wandering eyes also picked out Gordo Padilla with his arm around his wife, Rosa. Jesus, Gato, and the engineer, whose name he could never remember, stood nearby brandishing bottles in the air. Then the gangplank was down, and Pitt shook hands with Maderas and Hidalgo.

"Thank you, gentlemen, and thank your corpsman for me. He did a first-rate job of patching me up."

"It is we who are in your debt, Senor Pitt," said Hidalgo. "My mother and father own a small ranch not far from here and will reap the benefits when wells are sunk into your river."

"Please make me one promise," said Pitt.

"If it's within our power," replied Maderas.

Pitt grinned. "Don't ever let anyone name that damned river after me."

He turned and walked across to the auto deck of the ferry and into a sea of bodies. Loren rushed up to him, stopped, and slowly put her arms around his neck so she would not press her body against his injuries. Her lips were trembling as she kissed him.

She pulled back as the tears flowed, smiled and said, "Welcome home, sailor."

Then the rush was on. Newsmen and TV cameramen from both sides of the border swarmed around as Pitt greeted Sandecker and Giordino.

"I thought sure you'd bought a tombstone this time," said Giordino, beaming like a neon sign on the Las Vegas strip.

Pitt smiled. "If I hadn't found the Wallowing Windbag, I wouldn't be here."

"I hope you realize," said Sandecker, faking a frown, "that you're getting too old for swimming around in caves."

Pitt held up his good hand as if taking an oath. "So help me, Admiral, if I ever so much as look at another underground cavern, shoot me in the foot."

Then Shannon came up and planted a long kiss on his lips that had Loren fuming. When she released him, she said, "I missed you."

Before he could reply, Miles Rodgers and Peter Duncan were pumping his uninjured hand. "You're one tough character," said Rodgers.

"I busted the computer and lost your data," Pitt said to Duncan. "I'm genuinely sorry."

"No problem," Duncan replied with a broad smile. "Now that you've proven the river runs from Satan's Sinkhole under Cerro el Capirote and shown where it resurges into the Gulf, we can trace its path with floating sonic geophysical imaging systems along with transmitting instrument packages."

At that moment, unnoticed by most of the mob, a dilapidated Mexicali taxi smoked to a stop. A man jumped out and hurried across the dock and onto the auto deck wearing only a blanket. He put his head down and barreled his way through the mass of people until he reached Pitt.

"Rudi!" Pitt roared as he wrapped his free arm around the little man's shoulder. "Where did you fall from?"

As if he'd timed it, Gunn's splinted fingers lost their grip on the blanket and it fell to the deck, leaving him standing in only the hospital smock. "I escaped the clutches of the nurse from hell to come here and greet you," he said, without any sign of embarrassment.

"Are you mending okay?"

"I'll be back at my desk at NUMA before you."

Pitt turned and hailed Rodgers. "Miles, you got your camera?"

"No good photographer is ever without his cameras," Rodgers shouted over the noise of the crowd.

"Take a picture of the three battered bastards of Cerro el Capirote."

"And one battered bitch," added Loren, squeezing into the lineup.

Rodgers got off three shots before the reporters took over.

"Mr. Pitt!" One of the TV interviewers pushed a microphone in front of his face. "What can you tell us about the subterranean river?"

"Only that it exists," he answered smoothly, "and that it's very wet."

"How large would you say it is?"

He had to think a moment as he slipped his arm around Loren and squeezed her hip. "I'd guess about two-thirds the size of the Rio Grande."

"That big?"

"Easily."

"How do you feel after swimming through underground caverns for over a hundred kilometers?"

Pitt was always irritated when a reporter asked how a mother or father felt after their house burned down with all their children inside, or how a witness felt who watched someone fall from an airplane without a parachute.

"Feel?" stated Pitt. "Right now I feel that my bladder will burst if I don't get to a bathroom."

HOMECOMING

November 4, 1998

San Felipe, Baja California

Two days later, after everyone gave detailed statements to the Mexican investigators, they were free to leave the country. They assembled on the dock to bid their farewells.

Dr. Peter Duncan was the first to leave. The hydrologist slipped away early in the morning and was gone before anyone missed him. He had a busy year ahead of him as director of the Sonoran Water Project, as it was to be called. The water from the river was to prove a godsend to the drought-plagued Southwest. Water, the lifeblood of civilization, would create jobs for the people of the desert. Construction of aqueducts and pipelines would channel the water into towns and cities and would turn a dry lake into a recreational reservoir the size of Lake Powell.

Soon to follow would be projects to mine the mineral riches Pitt had discovered on his underground odyssey and to build a tourist center beneath the earth.

Dr. Shannon Kelsey was invited back to Peru to continue her excavations of the ruins in the Chachapoyan cities. Where she went, Miles Rodgers followed.

"I hope we meet again," said Rodgers, shaking Pitt's hand.

"Only if you promise to stay out of sacred sinkholes," Pitt said warmly.

Rodgers laughed. "Count on it."

Pitt looked down into Shannon's eyes. The determination and boldness burned as bright as ever. "I wish you all the best."

She saw in him the only man she had ever met whom she couldn't have or control. She felt an undercurrent of affection toward him she couldn't explain. Just to spite Loren again, Shannon kissed Pitt long and hard.

"So long, big guy. Don't forget me."

Pitt nodded and said simply, "I couldn't if I tried."

Shortly after Shannon and Miles left in their rented car for the airport in San Diego, a NUMA helicopter dropped out of the sun and touched down on the deck of the Alhambra. The pilot left the engine idling as he jumped down from the cargo hatch. He looked around a moment and then, recognizing Sandecker, approached him.

"Good morning, Admiral. Ready to leave, or should 1 shut down the engine?"

"Keep it running," answered Sandecker. "What's the status of my NUMA passenger jet?"

"Waiting on the ground at the Yuma Marine Corps Air Station to fly you and the others back to Washington."

"Okay, we're set to board." Sandecker turned to Pitt. "So, you're going on sick leave?"

"Loren and I thought we'd join a Classic Car Club of America tour through Arizona."

"I'll expect you in one week." He turned to Loren and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. "You're a member of Congress. Don't take any crap from him and see that he gets back in one piece, fit for work."

Loren smiled. "Don't worry, Admiral. My constituents want me back on the job infighting shape too."

"What about me?" said Giordino. "Don't I get time off to recuperate?"

"You can sit behind a desk just as easily in a wheelchair." Then Sandecker smiled fiendishly. "Now, Rudi, he's a different case. I think I'll send him to Bermuda for a month."

"Whatta guy," said Gunn, trying desperately to keep a straight face.

It was a charade. Pitt and Giordino were like sons to Sandecker. Nothing went on between them that wasn't marked with a high degree of respect. The admiral knew with dead certainty that as soon as they were sound and able, they'd be in his office pressuring him for an ocean project to direct.

Two dockhands lifted Giordino into the helicopter. One seat had to be removed to accommodate his outstretched legs.

Pitt leaned in the doorway and tweaked one of the toes that protruded from the cast. "Try not to lose this helicopter like all the others."

"No big deal," Giordino came back. "I get one of these things every time I buy ten gallons of gas."

Gunn placed his hand on Pitt's shoulder. "It's been fun," he said lightly. "We must do it again sometime."

Pitt made a horrified face. "Not on your life."

Sandecker gave Pitt a light hug. "You rest up and take it easy," he said softly so the others couldn't hear above the beat of the rotor blades. "I'll see you when I see you."

"I'll make it soon."

Loren and Pitt stood on the deck of the ferryboat and waved until the helicopter turned northeast over the waters of the Gulf. He turned to her. "Well, that just leaves us."

She smiled teasingly. "I'm starved. Why don't we head into Mexicali and find us a good Mexican restaurant?"

"Now that you've broached the subject, I have a sudden craving for huevos rancheros."

"I guess I'll have to do the driving."

Pitt lifted his hand. "I still have one good arm."

Loren wouldn't heir of it. Pitt stood on the dock and guided her as she competently drove the big Pierce Arrow and its trailer up the ramp from the auto deck of the ferryboat onto the dock.

Pitt took one last, longing look at the walking beams of the old paddle steamer and wished he could have sailed it through the Panama Canal and up the Potomac River to Washington. But it was not meant to be. He gave a forlorn sigh and was slipping into the passenger seat when a car pulled up alongside. Curtis Starger climbed out.

He hailed them. "Glad I caught you before you left. Dave Gaskill said to make sure you got this."

He handed Pitt something wrapped in an Indian blanket. Unable to take it with both hands, he looked helplessly at Loren. She took the blanket and spread it open.

Four faces painted on clublike prayer sticks stared hack at them. "The sacred idols of the Montolos," Pitt said quietly. "Where did you find them?"

"We recovered them inside Joseph Zolar's private plane in Guaymas."

"I'd guessed the idols were in his dirty hands."

"They were positively identified as the missing Montolo effigies from a collectors data sheet we found with them," explained Starger.

"This will make the Montolos very happy."

Starger looked at him with a crooked smile. "I think we can trust you to deliver them."

Pitt chuckled and tilted his head toward the Travelodge. "They're not nearly as valuable as all the gold inside the trailer."

Starger threw Pitt a you-can't-fool-me look. "Very funny. All the golden artifacts are accounted for."

"I promise to drop the idols of in the Montolo village on our way to the border."

"Dave Gaskill and I never nourished a doubt."

"How are the Zolars?" Pitt asked.

"In jail with every charge from theft and illegal smuggling to murder hanging over their heads. You'll be happy to learn the judge denied them bail, dead certain they would flee the country.

"You people do nice work."

"Thanks to your help, Mr. Pitt. If the Customs Service can ever do you a favor, short of smuggling illegal goods into the country, of course, don't hesitate to give us a call."

"I'll remember that, thank you."

Billy Yuma was unsaddling his horse after making the daily rounds of his small herd. He paused to look over the rugged landscape of cactus, mesquite, and tamarisk scattered through the rock outcroppings making up his part of the Sonoran Desert. He saw a dust cloud approaching that slowly materialized into what looked to him to be a very old automobile pulling a trailer, both vehicles painted in the same shade of dark, almost black, blue.

His curiosity rose even higher when the car and trailer stopped in front of his house. He walked from the corral as the passenger door opened and Pitt stepped out.

"A warm sun to you, my friend," Yuma greeted him.

"And clear skies to you," Pitt replied.

Yuma shook Pitt's right hand vigorously. "I'm real glad to see you. They told me you died in the darkness."

"Almost, but not quite," said Pitt, nodding at the arm held by the sling. "I wanted to thank you for entering the mountain and saving the lives of my friends."

"Evil men are meant to die," said Yuma philosophically. "I'm happy I came in time."

Pitt handed Yuma the blanket-wrapped idols. "I've brought something for you and your tribe."

Yuma pulled back the top half of the blanket tenderly, as if peeking at a baby. He stared mutely for several moments into the faces of the four deities. Then tears brimmed in his eyes. "You have returned the soul of my people, our dreams, our religion. Now our children can be initiated and become men and women."

"I was told those who stole them experienced strange sounds like children wailing."

"They were crying to come home."

"I thought Indians never cried."

Yuma smiled as the joyous impact of what he held in his hands washed over him. "Don't you believe it. We just don't like to let anyone see us."

Pitt introduced Loren to Billy's wife, Polly, who insisted they stay for dinner, and would not take no for an answer. Loren let it slip that Pitt had a taste for huevos rancheros, so Polly made him enough to feed five ranch hands.

During the meal, Yuma's friends and family came to the house and reverently looked upon the cottonwood idols. The men shook Pitt's hand while the women presented small handcrafted gifts to Loren. It was a very moving scene and Loren wept unashamedly.

Pitt and Yuma saw in each other two men who were basically very much alike. Neither had any illusions left. Pitt smiled at him. "It is an honor to have you as a friend, Billy."

"You are always welcome here."

"When the water is brought to the surface," said Pitt, "I will see that your village is at the top of the list to receive it.

Yuma removed an amulet on a leather thong from around his neck and gave it to Pitt. "Something to remember your friend by."

Pitt studied the amulet. It was a copper image of the Demonio del Muertos of Cerro el Capirote inlaid with turquoise. "It is too valuable. I cannot take it."

Yuma shook his head. "I swore to wear it until our sacred idols came home. Now it is yours for good luck."

"Thank you."

Before they left Canyon Ometepec, Pitt walked Loren up to Patty Lou Cutting's grave. She knelt and read the inscription on the tombstone.

"What beautiful words," she said softly. "Is there a story behind them?"

"No one seems to know. The Indians say she was buried by unknown people during the night."

"She was so young. Only ten years old."

Pitt nodded. "She rests in a lonely place for a ten-year-old.

"When we get back to Washington, let's try to find if she exists in any records."

The desert wildflowers had bloomed and died so Loren made a wreath from creosote bush branches and laid it over the grave. They stood there for a while looking over the desert. The colors fired by the setting sun were vivid and extraordinary, enhanced by the clear November air.

The whole village lined the road to wish them adios as Loren steered the Pierce Arrow toward the main highway. As she shifted through the gears, Loren looked over at Pitt wistfully.

"Strange as you might think it sounds, that little village would be an idyllic place to spend a quiet honeymoon."

"Are YOU reminding me that I once asked you to many me?" said Pitt, squeezing one of her hands on the steering wheel.

"I'm willing to write it off as a moment of madness on your part."

He looked at her. "You're turning me down?"

"Don't act crushed. One of us has to keep a level head. You're too scrupulous to back out."

"I was serious."

She turned her eyes from the road and gave him a warm smile. "I know you were, but let's face reality. Our problem is that we're great pals, but we don't need each other. If you and I lived in a little house with a picket fence, the furniture would only gather dust because neither of us would ever be home. Oil and water don't mix. Your life is the sea, mine is Congress. We could never have a close, loving relationship. Don't you agree?"

"I can't deny you make a strong case."

"I vote we continue just the way we have. Any objections?"

Pitt did not immediately answer. He hid his relief remarkably well, Loren thought. He stared through the windshield at the road ahead for a long time. Finally, he said, "You know what, Congresswoman Smith?"

"No, what?"

"For a politician, you're an incredibly honest and sexy woman."

"And for a marine engineer," she said huskily, "you're so easy to love."

Pitt smiled slyly and his green eyes twinkled. "How far to Washington?"

About five thousand kilometers. Why?"

He pulled the sling off his arm, threw it in the backseat and slid his arm around her shoulder. "Just think, we've got five thousand kilometers to find out just how lovable I am."

POSTSCRIPT

The walls in the waiting room outside Sandecker's private office in the NUMA headquarters building are covered with a rogues' gallery of photographs taken of the admiral hobnobbing with the rich and famous. The subjects include five Presidents, numerous military leaders and heads of state, congressmen, noted scientists, and a sprinkling of motion picture stars, all staring at the camera, lips stretched in predictable smiles.

All have simple black frames. All except one that hangs in the exact center of the others. This one has a gold frame.

In this photograph Sandecker is standing amid a strange group of people who look as if they have just been in some kind of spectacular accident. One short, curly-headed man sits in a wheelchair, his legs in plaster casts, jutting toward the cameraman. Beside him is a small man wearing hornrimmed glasses, with his head encased in a bandage and splints on several of his fingers, wearing what appears to be a flimsy untied hospital smock. Then there is an attractive woman in shorts and a haltertop who looks as if she belongs in a safe house for battered wives. Next to her stands a tall man with a bandage on his forehead and one arm in a sling. His eyes have a devil-may-care look and his head is tilted back in robust laughter.

If, after being ushered into the admiral's office, you casually ask about the unusual characters in the photograph with the gold frame, be prepared to sit and listen attentively for the next hour.

It is a long story, and Sandecker loves to tell how the Rio Pitt got its name.