Nighthawk

47

As soon as Kurt’s strength returned, he began moving across the rocks behind the waterfall. Not planning to get back in the water, he shed his cumbersome air tank, damaged helmet and deflated BCD. Hooking them together, he tossed them in the water. Empty, the aluminum cylinder would float, but the deflated BCD, with its integrated weights, would drag them down.

They vanished and Kurt continued on foot, looking for a place to start his climb. He would have to climb upward and then over, where the ridge was thick with foliage thanks to the constant overspray from the waterfall.

Climbing it would be easy; getting there was more difficult. The footing behind the waterfall was treacherous. Kurt watched every step. Halfway in, he noticed something that didn’t belong in a pristine mountain lake. A sheen of discoloration lay across the wet rocks. Even in the flat light, he could see all the colors of the rainbow.

Oil and water, he thought. Or, more likely, gasoline.

It vanished where the churning water mixed it into the depths but clung to the stones, leading like an arrow into the mouth of a large cave.

That second boat had to come from somewhere.

Kurt picked his way to the mouth of the cave, gazed around the edge and into the darkness. He saw nothing and heard only the echo of the thundering waterfall, but the slick of petrochemical color beckoned him to enter.

He eased back into the water and swam into the cave. The farther in he went, the darker it became, but his eyes adjusted and he began to make out the details. Eighty feet back, the cave jagged to the right and widened; around the bend lay outlines of a camp.

Gas cans, propane canisters and a cookstove sat beside a group of plastic crates that looked exactly like the ones he’d seen at La Jalca. Bedrolls and wool blankets were laid out on a higher section. Spare oxygen tanks for the divers leaned against the cave wall. Beside them sat a stack of boxy items covered with plastic liners.

The camp was empty. Not exactly a surprise, considering the activity out on the lake and in the clearing where the Nighthawk had been placed.

“More burial chambers,” Kurt whispered, thinking of Urco’s statement when they’d cruised near the waterfall. “I would like it if they remain undisturbed. Of course you would. Your men were hiding back here.”

Kurt swam to the edge, climbed out of the water and began to pick through the offerings. He found a pair of binoculars and a flashlight but left them where they were since they would obviously be missed.

He dug into one of the plastic boxes and found a container filled with strips of dried beef. Realizing how hungry he was, he took a sample and chewed on it as he searched the rest of the cavern.

He found no guns or knives, but one of the bins had several boxes of ammunition in it. Another was empty except for cut lengths of color-coded wire. A third held bricks of orange clay that were wrapped in clear plastic. The alphanumeric code S-10 had been written on the outside of each.

“Semtex,” Kurt muttered, using the brand name of the compound. “What would you be doing with Semtex?”

The orange clay was a plastic explosive. Manufactured in the Czech Republic, S-10 was the latest version. It was similar to American-made C-4. Each of the bricks would be powerful enough to obliterate a car.

Kurt counted the supply. Assuming the crate had been full, at least half the explosives were already missing.

Finding no other weapons, Kurt pulled one of the bricks free and tucked it into a pocket. Without a blasting cap or an electrical charge, it would be difficult to set off, but it still might come in handy.

Closing the lid on the explosives crate, he moved to the back of the cave, rifled through another box and then moved over to the plastic tarp and the stack of equipment it covered.

Moving a rock that held the tarp down, Kurt peeled the material back and found himself staring at a rectangular piece of equipment that looked incredibly familiar.

Fuel cell.

Not only was it a fuel cell, it was identical in size, shape, design and color to the ones Joe had flown in on the Air-Crane. It was even marked the same; stenciled writing on the outer case read Type 3 Hydrogen Fuel Cell, Property of the United States Government.

Kurt touched the control panel, his fingers gliding across a bank of switches until he found the power button. He switched it on and received an immediate indication that it was working and producing power. A display lit up, indicating fully pressurized reservoirs of hydrogen and oxygen. Enough for twenty-six hours of continuous operation.

Under the next tarp was an identical unit. Behind them lay two more. Marks on the ground suggested two other units had been there and were now missing. Looped power cords, neatly banded together sat in a crate beside the units.

Why were they here?

“Explosives without detonators,” Kurt said to himself. “Replicas or stolen fuel cells, what are you up to Urco?”

The sound of an outboard motor approaching echoed down from the mouth of the cave. Kurt switched off the fuel cell, covered it up and placed the flat rock back on top.

The buzzing motor grew louder and then cut out as a light played across the water. Kurt retreated quietly into the recesses of the cave and took cover.

Peering out over a rock formation, he watched a gray inflatable with three men in it pull around the bend and drift to the shore. It bumped against the rocks, stopping beside the cookstove.

Two of the three men got out. They carried the deflated yellow air bags and stuffed them one on top of another into a gap in the rocks. That done, they went directly for the fuel cells.

“Cuántos?” the first one said.

“Llevar todos,” the second one replied, pulling up the tarps. “Una para los americanos, una para el chino, los otros son para los rusos, y para los amigos de Rio.”

He laughed as he finished.

“Y los explosivos?”

“Estan dentro,” the man replied. “Boom!” he said, chuckling further.

The other men laughed as well. They selected one of the fuel cells, tested it, as Kurt had, and then switched it off.

The man in the boat grew impatient. “Vamanos.”

The men onshore got moving. They carried all four of the fuel cells to the small boat, loaded them inside and then climbed aboard and pushed off.

As soon as they were clear of the rocks, the outboard was lowered back into the water and started with a hard pull. It coughed out a fog of blue smoke as it came to life and the men eased out of sight, heading toward the mouth of the cave.

Kurt waited until he’d heard them speed away and then cautiously stepped from his hiding place. He didn’t speak much Spanish, but some of the words were obvious to him.

His mind went to the Semtex he’d found and the joke that had brought out a round of laughter.

“Los explosivos,” Kurt whispered. “Boom!”