Inca Gold (Dirk Pitt 12)

A few minutes later the turbines screamed and the big 747-400 rose above the rolling sand dunes, dipped its starboard wing and banked slightly south of east. Zolar and Oxley sat in a small passenger compartment on the upper deck just behind the cockpit.

"I wonder what happened to the Moores," mused Oxley, peering through a window at the Sea of Cortez as it receded in the distance. "The last I saw of them was in the cavern as the last of the treasure was being loaded on a sled."

"I'll wager Cyrus handled that little problem in concert with Congresswoman Smith and Rudi Gunn,"

said Zolar, relaxing for the first time in days. He looked up and smiled at his personal serving lady as she offered two glasses of wine on a tray.

"I know it sounds strange, but I had an uneasy feeling they wouldn't be easy to get rid of."

"I have to tell you. The same thing crossed Cyrus's mind too. In fact, he thought they were a pair of killers."

Oxley turned to him. "The wife too? You're joking."

"No, I do believe he was serious." Zolar took a sip of the wine and made an expression of approval and nodded. "Excellent. A California cabernet from Chateau Montelena. You must try it."

Oxley took the glass and stared at it. "I won't feel like celebrating until the treasure is safely stored in Morocco and we learn that Cyrus has left Mexico."

Shortly after the aircraft had reached what the brothers believed was cruising altitude, they released their seat belts and stepped into the cargo bay where they began closely examining the incredible golden collection of antiquities. Hardly an hour had passed when Zolar stiffened and looked at his brother queerly.

"Does it feel to you like we're descending?"

Oxley was admiring a golden butterfly that was attached to a golden flower. "I don't feel anything."

Zolar was not satisfied. He leaned down and stared through a window at the ground less than 1000

meters (less than 3300 feet) below.

"We're too low!" he said sharply. "Something is wrong."

Oxley's eyes narrowed. He looked through an adjoining window. "You're right. The flaps are down. It looks like we're coming in for a landing. The pilot must have an emergency."

"Why didn't he alert us?"

At that moment they heard the landing gear drop. The ground was rising to meet them faster now.

They flashed past houses and railroad tracks, and then the aircraft was over the end of the runway. The wheels thumped onto concrete and the engines howled in reverse thrust. The pilot stood on the brakes and soon eased off on the throttles as he turned the huge craft onto a taxiway.

A sign on the terminal read Welcome to El Paso.

Oxley stared speechless as Zolar blurted, "My God, we've come down in the United States!"

He ran forward and began beating frantically on the cockpit door. There was no reply until the huge plane came to a halt outside an Air National Guard hangar at the opposite end of the field. Only then did the cockpit door slowly crack open.

"What in hell are you doing? I'm ordering you to get back in the air immediately--" Zolar's words froze in his throat as he found himself staring down the muzzle of a gun pointed between his eyes.

The pilot was still seated in his seat, as were the copilot and flight engineer. Henry Moore stood in the doorway gripping a strange nine-millimeter automatic of his own design, while inside the cockpit Micki Moore was talking over the aircraft radio as she calmly aimed a Lilliputian .25-caliber automatic at the pilot's neck.

"Forgive the unscheduled stop, my former friends," said Moore in a commanding voice neither Zolar nor Oxley had heard before, "but as you can see there's been a change of plan."

Zolar squinted down the gun barrel, and his face twisted from shock to menacing anger. "You idiot, you blind idiot, do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Why, yes," Moore answered matter-of-factly. "Micki and I have hijacked your aircraft and its cargo of golden artifacts. I believe you're aware of the old maxim: There is no honor among thieves."

"If you don't get this plane in the air quickly," Oxley pleaded, "Customs agents will be swarming all over it."

"Now that you mention it, Micki and I did entertain the idea of turning the artifacts over to the authorities."

"You can't know what you're saying."