Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

"Our brother has been in tougher scrapes before," said Zolar impassively. "A few Indians from a local village shouldn't present much of a threat to Amaru's hired killers."

"I expected him long before now."

"Not to worry. Cyrus will probably show up in Morocco with a girl on each arm."

They stood on the end of a narrow asphalt airstrip that had been grooved between the countless dunes of the Altar Desert so Mexican Air Force pilots could hold training exercises under primitive conditions.

Behind them, with its tail section jutting over the edge of the sand-swept strip, a Boeing 747-400 jetliner, painted in the colors of a large national air carrier, sat poised for takeoff.

Zolar moved under the shade of the starboard wing and checked off the artifacts inventoried by Henry and Micki Moore as the Mexican army engineers loaded the final piece on board the aircraft. He nodded at the golden sculpture of a monkey that was being hoisted by a large forklift into the cargo hatch nearly 7

meters (23 feet) from the ground. "That's the last of it."

Oxley stared at the barrenness surrounding the airstrip. "You couldn't have picked a more isolated spot to transship the treasure."

"We can thank the late Colonel Campos for suggesting it."

"Any problem with Campos's men since his untimely death?" Oxley asked with more cynicism than sense of loss.

Zolar laughed. "Certainly not after I gave each of them a one-hundred-ounce bar of gold."

"You were generous."

"Hard not to be with so much wealth sitting around."

"A pity Matos will miss spending his share," said Oxley.

"Yes, I cried all the way from Cerro el Capirote."

Zolar's pilot approached and gave an informal salute. "My crew and I are ready when you are, gentlemen. We would like to take off before it's dark."

"Is the cargo fastened down securely?" asked Zolar.

The pilot nodded. "Not the neatest job I've seen. But considering we're not using cargo containers, it should hold until we land at Nador in Morocco, providing we don't hit extreme turbulence."

"Do you expect any?"

"No, sir. The weather pattern indicates calm skies all the way."

"Good. We can enjoy a smooth flight," said Zolar, pleased. "Remember, at no time are we to cross over the border into the United States."

"I've laid a course that takes us safely south of Laredo and Brownsville into the Gulf of Mexico below Key West before heading out over the Atlantic."

"How soon before we touch down in Morocco?" Oxley asked the pilot.

"Our flight plan calls for ten hours and fifty-five minutes. Loaded to the maximum, and then some, with several hundred extra pounds of cargo and a full fuel load, plus the detour south of Texas and Florida, we've added slightly over an hour to our flight time, which I hope to pick up with a tail wind."

Zolar looked at the last rays of the sun. "With time changes that should put us in Nador during early afternoon tomorrow."

The pilot nodded. "As soon as you are seated aboard, we will get in the air." He returned to the aircraft and climbed a boarding ladder propped against the forward entry door.

Zolar gestured toward the ladder. "Unless you've taken a fancy to this sand pit, I see no reason to stand around here any longer."

Oxley bowed jovially. "After you." As they passed through the entry door, he paused and took one last look to the southwest. "I still don't feel right not waiting."

"If our positions were reversed, Cyrus wouldn't hesitate to depart. Too much is at stake to delay any longer. Our brother is a survivor. Stop worrying."

They gave a wave to the Mexican army engineers who stood back from the plane and cheered their benefactors. Then the flight engineer closed and secured the door.