The Kingdom

34

NORTHERN NEPAL

Despite the extreme cold, their gondola cave served them well, the snow-covered roof not only protecting them from the wind but also trapping a precious fraction of their body heat. Ensconced in the parachute canopy, their parkas, caps, and gloves, they slept deeply, if sporadically, until the sun peeking through the aluminum shingles woke them.

Though wary of another visit from the Chinese, Sam and Remi knew that to survive they would have to find a way out of the valley.

They climbed out of the gondola and set about making breakfast. From the Bell’s wreckage, they’d also managed to scrounge nine tea bags and a half-torn bag of dehydrated stroganoff. From the Z-9, Sam had unknowingly picked up a packet of rice crackers and three cans of what looked like baked mung beans. They split one of these and shared a cup of tea, the water for which they boiled inside the empty can.

They both agreed it was one of the best meals they’d ever had.

Sam took his last sip of tea, then said, “I was thinking last night-”

“And talking in your sleep,” Remi added. “You want to build something, don’t you?”

“Our mummified friends in the gondola got here by hot-air balloon. Why don’t we leave the same way?” Remi opened her mouth to speak but Sam pushed on. “No, I’m not talking about resurrecting their balloon. I’m thinking more along the lines of a . . .” Sam searched for the right term. “Franken-Balloon.”

Remi was nodding. “Some of their rigging, some of ours . . .” Her eyes brightened. “The parachute!”

“You read my mind. If we can shape it and seal it up, I think I have a way of filling it. All we need is enough to lift us out of this valley and onto one of those meadows we saw to the south-four or five miles at most. From there we should be able to walk to a village.”

“It’s still a long shot.”

“Long shots are our specialty, Remi. Here’s the truth of it: in these temperatures, we won’t survive for more than five days. A rescue party might come before that, but I’ve never been a big fan of ‘might.’”

“And there’s the Chinese to consider.”

“And them. I don’t see any other option. We gamble on rescue or we get ourselves out of here-or die trying.”

“No question: we try. Let’s build a dirigible.”

The first order of business was inventory. While Remi took careful stock of what they had scrounged, Sam carefully reeled the old rigging up from the crevasse. He found only shreds of what had once been the balloon-or balloons, in this case.

“There were at least three of them,” Sam guessed. “Probably four. You see all the curved pieces of wicker, the way they come to a point?”

“Yes.”

“I think those might have been enclosures for the balloons.”

“This material is silk,” Remi added. “It’s very thick.”

“Imagine it, Remi: a thirty-foot-long gondola suspended from four caged silk balloons . . . wicker-and-bamboo struts, sinew guy lines . . . I wonder how they kept it aloft. How did they funnel the heated air into the balloons? How would they-”

Remi turned to Sam, clasped his face between her hands, and kissed him. “Daydream later, okay?”

“Okay.”

Together, they began separating the tangled mess, setting guylines to one side, bamboo-and-wicker struts to the other. Once done, they carefully lifted the mummies from the gondola and began untangling them from the last bit of rigging.

“I’d love to know their story,” Remi said.

“It’s obvious they’d been using the upturned gondola as a shelter,” Sam said. “Perhaps the crevasse split open suddenly, and only these two managed to hold on.”

“Then why stay like that?”

Sam shrugged. “Maybe they were too weak, by that point. They used the bamboo and rigging to build a small platform.”

Kneeling beside the mummies, Remi said, “Weak and crippled. This one’s got a broken femur, a compound by the looks of it, and this one . . . See the indentation in the hip? That’s either dislocated or fractured. It’s awful. They just laid in there and waited to die.”

“It won’t be our fate,” Sam replied. “A fiery balloon crash, maybe, but not this.”

“Very funny.”

Remi stooped over and picked up one of the bamboo tubes. It was as big around as a baseball bat and five feet long. “Sam, there’s writing on this. It’s scratched into the surface.”

“Are you sure?” Sam looked over her shoulder. He was the first to recognize the language. “That’s Italian.”

“You’re right.” Remi ran her fingertips over the etched words while rotating the bamboo in her opposite hand. “This isn’t, though.” She pointed to a spot near the tip.

No taller than a half inch, a square grid framed four Asian symbols. “This can’t be,” Remi murmured. “Don’t you recognize them?”

“No, should I?”

“Sam, they’re the same four characters engraved on the lid of the Theurang chest.”