Sahara (35 page)

“We can down the stew with our soft drinks,” Giordino suggested.

“You got soda pop? How you fellas fixed for water?”

“Enough for a few days,” answered Giordino.

“If you’re running short I can point you toward a well about 10 miles to the north.”

“We’re thankful for any help,” said Pitt.

“More than you know,” added Giordino.

The sun had fallen below the horizon and twilight still lit the sky. With the approach of evening the air became breathable again. After hobbling Mr. Periwinkle, who found and began happily chomping on several clumps of coarse grass growing out of a small dune, the Kid added water to the concentrated beef stew and, to the relief of Pitt, cooked it over a small Coleman stove along with biscuits. If Kazim had sent aircraft to hunt them by night, a small fire, no matter how shielded by the walls of the gorge, would have been a dead giveaway. The old prospector also provided tin plates and eating utensils.

As Pitt soaked the final remains of his stew with a biscuit, he pronounced it as the most magnificent meal he’d ever eaten. He thought it amazing how a small measure of food could rejuvenate his optimism again. After they finished, the Kid produced a half-full bottle of Old Overholt straight rye whiskey and passed it around.

“Well now, if you’ve a mind to, why don’t you boys tell me why you’re drivin’ around the worst part of the Sahara in a car that looks as old as I am.”

“We’re searching for a source of toxic contamination that’s polluting the Niger and being carried down to the sea,” answered Pitt directly.

“That’s a new one. Where’s the stuff supposed to come from?”

“Either a chemical plant or a waste disposal facility.”

The Kid shook his head. “Ain’t nothin’ like that in these parts.”

“Any heavy construction around this section of the Sahara?” asked Giordino.

“Can’t think of any, except maybe Fort Foureau a ways to the northwest.”

“The solar detoxification plant run by the French?”

The Kid nodded. “A real big spread. Mr. Periwinkle and me tramped past it about six months ago. Got chased off. Guards everywhere. You’d have thought they were secretly buildin’ nuclear bombs.”

Pitt took a swallow of the rye, taking pleasure as it burned all the way down his throat to his stomach. He passed the bottle to Giordino. “Fort Foureau is too far from the Niger to pollute its water.”

The Kid sat silent a moment. Finally, he stared at Pitt with a curious twinkle in his eyes. “It might if the plant sat over the Oued Zarit.”

Pitt leaned forward and repeated, “Oued Zarit?”

“A legendary river that ran through Mali until a hundred and thirty years ago when it began sinkin’ into the sands. The local nomads, myself included, think the Oued Zarit still flows underground and empties into the Niger.”

“Like an aquifer.”

“A what?”

“A geological stratum that allows water to penetrate through pores and openings,” Pitt answered. “Usually through porous gravel or limestone caverns.”

“All I know is that if you dig deep enough, you’ll strike water in the old river channel.”

“I never heard of a river disappearing yet continuing its course deep in the earth,” said Giordino.

“Nothin’s unusual in that,” explained the Kid. “Most of the flow of the Mojave River runs under the Mojave Desert of California before emptyin’ in a lake. There’s one tale of a prospector finding a cave leading hundreds of feet down to the underground stream. So his story goes, he found tons of placer gold along the water.”

Pitt turned and looked steadily at Giordino. “What do you think?”

“Sounds to me like Fort Foureau might be the only game in town,” Giordino replied soberly.

“A long shot. But an underground stream running from the toxic waste plant to the Niger could be our contamination carrier.”

The Kid waved a hand up the gorge. “I guess you boys know this gulch runs into the old riverbed.”

“We know,” Pitt assured him. “We’ve been following it from the bank of the Niger most of last night. We holed up in this ravine during the heat of the day to keep from being seen by Malian search parties.”

“Looks like you fooled them so far.”

“What’s your story?” Giordino asked the Kid, handing him the rye bottle. “You prospecting for gold?”

The Kid studied the label on the bottle for a moment as if trying to make up his mind to reveal the reason behind his presence. Then he shrugged and shook his head. “Look-in’ for gold, yes. Prospectin’, no. I guess it won’t hurt me none to tell you boys. The truth is I’m lookin’ for a shipwreck.”

Pitt studied him with bleak suspicion. “A shipwreck . . . a shipwreck here in the middle of the Sahara Desert?”

“A Confederate ironclad to be exact.”

Pitt and Giordino sat there in dazed incomprehension with the growing tentative wish there was a straitjacket in the Voisin’s tool box. They both stared at the Kid in a very peculiar way. It was almost dark now, but they could still see the earnest expression in his eyes.

“Without the risk of sounding stupid,” said Pitt skeptically, “would you mind telling us how a warship from the war between the states got here?”

The Kid took a long swallow from the rye bottle and wiped his mouth. Then he unrolled a blanket on the sand and stretched out, propping the back of his head with his hands. “It was back in April of 1865, the week before Lee surrendered to Grant. A few miles below Richmond, Virginia, the Confederate ironclad
Texas
was loaded with the records of the dyin’ Confederate government. At leastways they said it was documents and records, but it was really gold.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a myth like so many other treasure tales?” said Pitt.

“President Jefferson Davis himself, before he died, claimed the gold from the Confederate States treasury was loaded in the dead of night on board the
Texas.
He and his cabinet hoped to smuggle it through the Union navy blockade into another country so they could form a new government in exile and continue fightin’ the war.”

“But Davis was captured and imprisoned,” Pitt said.

The Kid nodded. “The Confederacy died, never to be reborn.”

“And the
Texas?”

“The ship fought one hell of a battle as it steamed down the James River past half the Union navy and the forts at Hampton Roads before gainin’ Chesapeake Bay and escapin’ into the Atlantic. The last anybody saw the ship and any of its crew on this side of the ocean was when it vanished in a fog bank.”

“And you think the
Texas
sailed across the sea and entered the Niger River?” Pitt ventured.

“I do,” the Kid replied firmly. “I’ve traced contemporary sightin’s by French colonials and natives who passed down stories of the monster without sails that floated by their villages on the river. Descriptions of the warship and the dates it was observed satisfy me that it was the
Texas.”

“How could a warship the size and tonnage of an ironclad steam this far into the Sahara without stranding?” asked Giordino.

“That was in the days before the century of drought. This part of the desert had rain then, and the Niger ran much deeper than it does now. One of its tributaries was the Oued Zarit. At that time the Oued Zarit flowed from the Ahaggar Mountains northeast of here 600 miles to the Niger. Journals of French explorers and military expeditions say it was deep enough to afford passage for large boats. My guess is the
Texas
turned up the Oued Zarit from the Niger then grounded and became trapped when the water level began to drop with the approach of the summer heat.”

“Even with a fair depth of water it seems impossible for a heavy vessel like an ironclad to sail this far from the sea.”

“The
Texas
was built for military operations on the James River. She had a flat bottom and shallow draft. Navigatin’ the tricky turns and depths of a river was no problem for her and her crew. The miracle was that she crossed an open ocean without sinkin’ in rough water and heavy weather like the
Monitor.”

“A ship could have reached any number of unpopulated regions during the 1860s up and down the North and Central American shores,” Pitt said. “Why risk losing the gold hoard by sailing over dangerous seas and crossing uncharted country?”

The Kid took a cigar stub from his shirt pocket and lit it with a wooden match. “You have to admit, the Union navy never would have thought to search for the
Texas
a thousand miles up a river in Africa.”

“Probably not, but it certainly seems like an extreme.”

“I’m with you,” said Giordino. “Why the desperation? They couldn’t rebuild another government in the middle of a desert wasteland.”

Pitt looked at the Kid thoughtfully. “There had to be more to the hazardous voyage than smuggling gold.”

“There was a rumor.” The subtle change in tone could hardly be called evasive, but it was unmistakable. “Lincoln was on board the
Texas
when she left Richmond.”

“Not Abraham Lincoln,” Giordino scoffed.

The Kid silently nodded.

“Who dreamed up that piece of fiction?” Pitt waved off another offer of the rye.

“A Confederate cavalry captain by the name of Neville Brown made a deathbed statement to a doctor in Charleston, South Carolina, when he died in 1908. He claimed his troop captured Lincoln and delivered him on board the
Texas.”

“The ravings of a dying man,” murmured Giordino in absolute disbelief. “Lincoln must have caught the Concorde to arrive in time to be shot by John Wilkes Booth at Ford’s Theatre.”

“I don’t know the whole story,” admitted the Kid.

“A fantastic but intriguing tale,” said Pitt. “But tough to take seriously.”

“I can’t guarantee the Lincoln legend,” the Kid said adamantly, “but I’ll bet Mr. Periwinkle and the remains of my grubstake, the
Texas
and the bones of her crew, along with the gold, lie here in the sand somewhere. I’ve been roamin’ the desert for five years searchin’ for her remains and by God I’m gonna find her or die tryin’.”

Pitt gazed at the shadowed form of the old prospector in sympathy and respect. He rarely saw such dedication and determination. There was a burning confidence in the Kid that reminded Pitt of the old miner in
The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.

“If she’s buried under a dune, how do you intend on discovering her?” asked Giordino.

“I got a good metal detector, a Fisher 1265X.”

Pitt could think of nothing more of consequence to say except, “I hope good luck leads you to the
Texas,
and she’s all you imagined.”

The Kid lay there on his blanket without speaking for several seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Finally, Giordino broke the silence.

“It’s time we were on our way if we want to make any distance by dawn.”

Twenty minutes later the engine of the Voisin was quietly idling as Pitt and Giordino said their goodbyes to the Kid and Mr. Periwinkle. The old prospector had insisted they take several packages of concentrated food from his stock. He had also drawn them a rough map of the ancient riverbed, marking in landmarks and the only well near the trail leading to the waste facility at Fort Foureau.

“How far?” asked Pitt.

The Kid shrugged. “About 110 miles.”

“A hundred and seventy-seven kilometers on the odometer,” translated Giordino.

“Hope you fellas find what you’re lookin’ for.”

Pitt shook hands and smiled. “You too.” He climbed in the Voisin and settled behind the wheel, almost sad to leave the old man.

Giordino lingered a moment as he bid a farewell. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Glad to be of help.”

“I’ve been wanting to say this, but you look vaguely familiar.”

“Can’t imagine why. I don’t recall meetin’ up with you fellas before.”

“Would I offend you if I asked you your real name?”

“Not at all, I don’t take offense easily. It’s an odd name. Never used it much.”

Giordino waited patiently without interrupting.

“It’s Clive Cussler.”

Giordino smiled. “You’re right, it is an odd name.”

Then he turned and settled in the front seat beside Pitt. He turned to wave as Pitt eased out the clutch and the Voisin began rolling over the flat bed of the gully. But the old man and his faithful burro were quickly lost in the dark of evening.

Part III

DESERT SECRETS

30

May 18, 1996

Washington, DC.

The Air France Concorde touched down at Dulles Airport and taxied up to an unmarked U.S. government hangar near the cargo terminals. The sky was overcast, but the runway was dry and showed no sign of rain. Still clutching his backpack as if it was part of him, Gunn exited the sleek aircraft almost immediately and hurried down the mobile stairway to a waiting black Ford sedan driven by uniformed capital police. With flashing lights and screaming siren, he was whisked toward the NUMA headquarters building in the nation’s capital.

Gunn felt like a captured felon, riding in the backseat of the speeding police car. He noticed that the Potomac River looked unusually green and leaden as they shot over the Kochambeau Memorial Bridge. The blur of pedestrians was too immune to revolving lights and sirens to bother looking up as the Ford shot past.

The driver did not pull up at the main entrance but swung around the west corner of the NUMA building, tires squealing, and flew down a ramp leading to a garage beneath the lobby floor. The Ford came to an abrupt stop in front of an elevator. Two security guards stepped forward, opened the door, and escorted Gunn into the elevator and up to the agency’s fourth floor. A short distance down the hallway they stood back and opened the door to the NUMA’s vast conference room with its sophisticated visual displays.

Several men and women were seated around a long mahogany table, their attention focused on Dr. Chapman, who was lecturing in front of a screen that depicted the middle Atlantic Ocean along the equator off West Africa.

The room abruptly hushed as Gunn walked in. Admiral Sandecker rose out of his chair, rushed forward, and greeted Gunn like a brother who had survived a liver transplant.