Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

I can't help but wonder where the source is," mused Sandecker.

Giordino rubbed a hand through his curly mop. "The latest in geophysical ground-penetrating instruments should have no problem tracking the course."

"There is no predicting what a discovery of this magnitude means to the drought-plagued Southwest,"

said Duncan, still aroused by what he'd seen. "The benefits could result in thousands of jobs, millions of acres brought under cultivation, pasture for livestock. We might even see the desert turned into a Garden of Eden."

"The thieves will drown in the water that makes the desert into a garden," Pitt said, staring into the crystal blue pool and remembering Billy Yuma's words.

"What was that you said?" asked Giordino curiously.

Pitt shook his head and smiled. "An old Indian proverb."

After carrying the dive equipment up to the surface entrance of the borehole, Giordino and Duncan stripped off their suits while Sandecker loaded their gear into the Plymouth station wagon. The admiral came over as Pitt drove alongside in the old pickup and stopped.

"I'll meet you back here in two hours," he notified Sandecker.

"Mind telling us where you're going?"

"I have to see a man about raising an army."

"Anybody I know?"

"No, but if things go half as well as I hope, you'll be shaking his hand and pinning a medal on him by the time the sun goes down."

Gaskill and Ragsdale were waiting at the small airport west of Calexico on the United States side of the border when the NUMA plane landed and taxied up to a large Customs Service van. They had begun transferring the underwater survival equipment to the van from the cargo hatch of the plane when Sandecker and Giordino arrived in the station wagon.

The pilot came over and shook their hands. "We had to hustle to assemble your shopping list, but we managed to scrounge every piece of gear you requested."

"Were our engineers able to lower the profile of the Hovercraft as Pitt requested?" asked Giordino.

"A miraculous crash job." The pilot smiled. "But the admiral's mechanical whiz kids said to tell you they modified the Wallowing Windbag down to a maximum height of sixty-one centimeters."

"I'll thank everyone personally when I return to Washington," said Sandecker warmly.

"Would you like me to head back?" the pilot asked the admiral. "Or stand by here?"

"Stick by your aircraft in case we need you."

They had just finished loading the van and were closing the rear cargo doors when Curtis Starger came racing across the airstrip in a gray Customs vehicle. He braked to a stop and came from behind the wheel as if shot out of a cannon.

"We got problems," he announced.

"What kind of problems?" Gaskill demanded.

"Mexican Border Police just closed down their side of the border to all U.S. traffic entering Mexico."

"What about commercial traffic?"

"That too. They also added insult to injury by putting up a flock of military helicopters with orders to force down all intruding aircraft and stop any vehicle that looks suspicious."

Ragsdale looked at Sandecker. "They must be onto your fishing expedition."

"I don't think so. No one saw us enter or leave the borehole."

Starger laughed. "What do you want to bet that after Senor Matos ran back and reported our hard stand to the Zolars, they frothed at the mouth and coerced their buddies in the government to raise the drawbridge."

"That would be my guess," agreed Ragsdale. "They were afraid we'd come charging in like the Light Brigade."