Excavation

Sam shook his head.

Maggie pointed once again toward the beastly caldera. “That’s the price for eternal life here. The children! It takes their offspring and… and I don’t know… maybe experiments with them. Who knows? But whatever the purpose, the temple is using the Incas’ children as biologic fodder. The villagers are no more than cattle in a reproductive experiment.”

“But what about Denal?” Sam asked.

She glanced to the boy. He was unchanged… mostly. She remembered his reluctance to enter the tunnel. “I think the temple needs more malleable material, earlier genetic cells, like from newborns. Denal was too old. So it did to him like it does to all its experiments. Once finished, it instilled some mental imperative to cross to the next caldera and implanted phobic blocks on returning. You saw Denal’s inability to enter here, just like the creatures’. I suspect those beasts we found at the necropolis two days ago had migrated from the caldera through other tunnels, perhaps looking for another way out, and became trapped down there. I think the beasts are allowed to go anywhere except into the villagers’ valley. That is forbidden.”

“But why?”

“Because the temple is protecting its investment from its own biologic waste products. It can’t risk some harm coming to its future source of raw genetic material. So it protects the villagers.”

“But if these creatures are a risk, why doesn’t it just destroy the experiments once it’s done with them? Why let them live?”

Maggie shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe the neighboring caldera is a part of the experiment, some natural testing ground for its creations. It monitors how they adapt and function in a real environment.”

“And what about the way they burn up when I stabbed them?”

“Spontaneous combustion. A fail-safe mechanism. Did you notice how Denal’s guards had spears made of the same gold? A blow from one of these weapons, even a scratch, must set off some energy cascade. It’s just another level of protection for the villagers.”

Sam stared at the temple, horror growing in his eyes. “It still sounds crazy. But considering what happened to Norman, I can’t deny that you might be right.” He turned to Maggie. “But, if so, why is the temple doing all this? What is its ultimate goal? Who built it?”

Maggie frowned. She had no answer. She began to shake her head when a new noise intruded into the tunnel.

… whump, whump, whump…

Sam and Maggie both turned toward the tunnel’s other end. It was coming from the valley beyond.

“C’mon,” Sam said excitedly. He led them at a fast clip toward the bright sunlight.

As they reached the end, squinting at the late morning’s glare, Sam pointed. “Look! It’s the cavalry!” Circling through the mists overhead was a dark shadow. As it descended farther, the green-black body of a military transport helicopter came into sight. “It’s Uncle Hank! Thank God!”

Maggie also sighed with relief. “I’ll be glad to get the professor’s take on all this.”

Sam put his arm around her. She didn’t resist.

Then deeper down in the valley, a new sound challenged the beat of the rotors. A more rapid thumping: drums! It seemed the Incas had also spotted the strange bird entering their valley. The sharp clangs of beaten gongs began to ring through the valley, strident and angry.

Maggie glanced at Sam. “War drums.”

Sam’s arm dropped from her shoulder; his grin faded. “I don’t understand. Norman should’ve warned the Incas not to fear the professor or the others.”

“Something must’ve gone wrong.”

Sam now wore a deep frown. “I’ve got to reach my uncle and warn him.” He began to lead the way down the steep switchbacks.

Below in the valley, the helicopter descended toward the flat field of quinoa planted at the jungle’s edge. The shafts of the plants were beaten flat by the rotor’s wash.

Maggie followed. “But what about Norman?” she yelled over the roar of the helicopter.

Sam did not answer, but his pace increased.

Norman hid in the fringes of the jungle as the helicopter landed in the green meadow beyond. He kept tucked behind the leaves of a thorny bush; tiny green ants marched down a frond before his eyes, too busy to be bothered by the thumping beat of the helicopter as its skids settled into the field.

Norman, though, felt every thudding whump deep in his chest. Cringing, he prayed he was wrong and hoped he had misinterpreted Professor Conklin’s words. “After all that’s occurred this last week,” he mumbled to himself, “maybe I’m just being paranoid.” Still, Norman remained hidden as the passenger compartment of the chopper slid open. A part of him knew that he was not wrong. Professor Conklin had been trying to warn Norman about something. But what?

The answer was soon apparent. A mix of men, some dressed in fatigues and jungle camouflage, others dressed in the brown robes of monks, clambered from the helicopter. The men, even the monks, moved too efficiently to be just a rescue team. Crated gear was off-loaded from a hatch and cracked open. Norman saw assault rifles passed from hand to hand. Several of the men knelt and attached grenade launchers to their weapons.

Norman hunkered down even lower. Oh, God! He hadn’t been paranoid enough.

From deeper in the jungle, the drums and clanging gongs that had sounded from the Incan village fell silent. Norman held his breath. He was glad he had warned Pachacutec to prepare the village. If there had been no danger, the plan was for Norman to accompany the professor back to the village, halting any bloodshed and making introductions.

Norman considered returning to the village now. The Incas were prepared for hostilities, but not for this. He should warn them to flee. But Norman knew Pachacutec never would. The two had shared a long talk this morning, and it was clear the Incan king would brook no challenge to the tribe’s autonomy. Pachacutec would not run.

So Norman remained hidden, peering through the fronded branches of his lookout post. The leader of the men, a rotund fellow outfitted in a safari suit and matching hat, barked orders and aligned his men for a march to the village. The men were quick to obey. In only ten minutes from the time the skids hit the ground, the assault team was under way. They operated with military precision.

A pair of men took the point. Crouching, they ran from under the blades of the helicopter and raced to the trailhead that led to the village. From their reconnaissance in the air, Norman was sure the twisted trails to the village had been mapped. The other four men followed more slowly, cautiously, guns at the ready. The large leader, red-faced and covered in a sheen of sweat, moved behind them, armed with a pistol and flanked by a single guard for protection.