Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

"Those who are intolerant of the desert die in it," said Pitt thoughtfully. "Those who respect it find it a compelling place to live."

"People actually live down there?" Shannon asked in surprise.

"Mostly Indians," repl

ied Pitt. "The Sonoran Desert is perhaps the most beautiful of all the world's deserts, even though the citizens of central Mexico think of it as their Ozarks."

Giordino leaned out a side window for a better view and peered into the distance through the trusty binoculars. He patted Pitt on the shoulder. "Your hot spot is coming up off to, port."

Pitt nodded, made a slight course change and peered at a solitary mountain rising from the desert floor directly ahead. Cerro el Capirote was aptly named. Though not exactly conical in shape, there was a slight resemblance to a dunce cap with the tip flattened.

"I think I can make out an animal-like sculpture on the summit," observed Giordino.

"I'll descend and hover over it," Pitt acknowledged.

He cut his airspeed, dropped, and swung around the top of the mountain. He approached and circled cautiously, on the watch for sudden downdrafts. Then he hovered the helicopter almost nose-to-nose with the grotesque stone effigy. Mouth agape, it seemed to stare back with the truculent expression of a hungry junkyard dog.

"Step right up, folks," hawked Pitt as if he were a carnival barker, "and view the astounding demon of the underworld who shuffles cards with his nose and deals 'em with his toes."

"It exists," cried Shannon, flushed with excitement, as they all were. "It truly exists."

"Looks like a timeworn gargoyle," said Giordino, successfully controlling his emotions.

"You've got to land," demanded Rodgers. "We must get a closer look."

"Too many high rocks around the sculpture," said Pitt. "I have to find a flat spot to set down."

"There's a small clearing free of boulders about forty meters beyond the demon," Giordino said, pointing through the windscreen over Pitt's shoulder.

Pitt nodded and banked around the towering rock carving so he could make his approach into the wind blowing across the mountain from the west. He reduced speed, eased back the cyclic stick. The turquoise helicopter hovered a moment, flared out, and then settled onto the only open space on the stone summit of Cerro el Capirote.

Giordino was first out, carrying tiedown lines that he attached to the helicopter and wrapped around rock outcroppings. When he completed the operation, he moved in front of the cockpit and drew his hand across his throat. Pitt shut off the engine and the rotor blades wound down.

Rodgers jumped down and offered a hand to Shannon. She hit the ground and took off at a run over the uneven terrain toward the stone effigy. Pitt stepped from the helicopter last, but did not follow the others. He casually raised the binoculars and scanned the sky in the direction of the faint sound of an aircraft engine. The seaplane was only a silver speck against a dome of blue. The pilot had maintained an altitude of 2000 meters (6500 feet) in an attempt to remain unseen. But Pitt was not fooled. His intuition told him he was being tailed the instant he lifted off from the Alhambra. Spotting the enemy only confirmed his suspicions.

Before he joined the others already gathered around the stone beast, he took a moment and stepped to the edge of the craggy wall and stared down, thankful that he did not have to make the ascent. The unobstructed panorama of the desert was breathtaking. The October sun tinted the rocks and sand in vivid colors that turned drab during the hot summer. The waters of the Gulf sparkled to the south and the mountain ranges on both sides of the marshlands of the Laguna Salada rose majestically through a slight haze.

Satisfaction swelled within him. He had made a good call. The ancients had indeed selected an imposing spot to hide their treasure.

When he finally approached the huge stone beast, Shannon was making detailed measurements of the jaguar body while Rodgers busied himself shooting roll after roll of photos. Giordino appeared intent on searching around the pedestal for a trace of the entrance to the passageway leading down into the mountain.

"Does he have the proper pedigree?" Pitt asked.

"Definitely Chachapoyan influence," Shannon said, her face flushed with fervor. "An extraordinary example of their art." She stood back as if admiring a painting hanging in a gallery. "See how the motifs on the scales are exactingly duplicated. They're a perfect match for those on the sculpted beasts in the Pueblo de los Muertos."

"The technique is the same?"

"Almost identical."

"Then perhaps the same sculptor had a hand in carving this one."

"It's possible." Shannon raised her hand as high as she could reach and stroked the lower part of the serpent's scaled neck. "It wasn't uncommon for the Incas to recruit Chachapoyan stone carvers."

"The ancients must have had a strange sense of humor to create a god whose looks could sour milk."

"The legend is vague but it contends that a condor laid an egg that was eaten and vomited by a jaguar.

A snake was hatched from the regurgitated egg and slithered into the sea where it grew fish scales. The rest of the mythological account says that because the beast was so ugly and shunned by the other gods who thrived in the sun, it lived underground where it eventually became the guardian of the dead."