Chase Baker and the Golden Condor: (A Chase Baker Thriller Series No. 2) (15 page)

There’s no time to waste as we pull ourselves back up onto our
feet and go to Rodney’s aid. But as soon I lay eyes upon him…upon his chest…I
can see that he’s already gone. The flow of blood coming from the entry wounds
in his sternum has abated, all movement ceased, any signs of breathing a
historical fact. I take a knee, place my fingers to his jugular, and confirm
his death.

Running my open hand gently over his eyes, I close his lids.

I stand.

“It’s just you and me now, Leslie,” I say. “Still want to go
on?”

She’s pulling down her shirt and straightening out her hair
with both her hands.

“Everyone has been killed but us,” she says. “We stop now it
wouldn’t be like giving up on us. It would be like giving up on our team.”

I nod.

“I agree and I love you for that.” I pause for a moment
while glancing up at the treetops and the rays of brilliant sunshine pouring
through them. It’s as if I’m looking directly into heaven itself. Then,
lowering my head, refocusing my gaze on my agent’s beautiful face, “Whatever’s
out there, Leslie…Whatever it is that is protected inside some cave that’s been
bored of some unknown mountain, it is so important and so precious that men are
willing to murder for it.”

Leslie exhales, wipes the beaded perspiration from her brow
with the back of her hand, a hand still stained with the blood from the savage
who tried to rape her. “I’m sure that whatever is out there deep inside this
unforgiving jungle is so incredibly priceless that whoever takes possession of
it will be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams.”

I shake my head.

“It’s more than that, Leslie,” I say, setting both my hands
on her shoulders. “Way more. The Condor is not just a priceless antiquity. If
it is a golden aircraft and it’s operational…if it actually flies…then we are
about to uncover something that’s going to pretty much turn the world upside
down.”

“But will people believe us? Believe in the Condor? And is
it something we should expose to the world? An object that challenges not
something as simple as the history of aviation but the fucking foundations of
western civilization and its religion. This isn’t about an old plane, Chase,
it’s about God. The existence of this plane will destroy him if we let it.” My
agent, inhaling, shakes her head. “Just what the hell is it we’re about to pull
the lid off of?”

“Leslie,” I say, raising my eyes back up at the sun, “what
we’re about to uncover is nothing less than a portal that leads directly to our
makers.”

“God,” she states.

“Maybe God,” I say. “Or maybe something else entirely.
Something we’ve been confusing with God for centuries.”

Before we move on, I dig through Rodney’s pockets, find his
wallet and his unsecured cell phone. I look at the face of his cell, and I can
see that for as many times as he’s called Keogh III there have been no return
calls. I search his texts, and I can see it’s the same story. Flipping over to
his Gmail, the story of one-sided communications repeats itself yet another
time.

I store the phone and wallet inside one of my cargo pants’
pockets.

“Are you going to alert your employer about the recent
deaths?” Leslie says, while picking up Rodney’s AR-15 from off the ground. “He
really should know.”

I shake my head. “He’s been oddly if not disturbingly out of
reach so far. And I’m not sure why.”

“One would think he’d be in touch with you every step of the
way.”

“True that. But there’s something about his lack of
communication that bothers me more than his simply not returning our calls or
texts.”

“And that is, Chase?”

“Something tells me that going in search of this ancient
aircraft, as out of this world important that it is, is not the walk in the
park it was originally made out to be.”

“There are Rodney’s and Carlos’s dead bodies to prove it,
not to mention three crucified guides and one badly decapitated revolutionary.”

“And that’s just a partial list of casualties, which tells
you what?”

She places the AR-15 strap over her shoulder.

“I think I know what you’re getting at, Chase,” she says,
her dark eyes wide and unblinking. “This is a suicide mission, isn’t it?”

Me, exhaling. “Keogh never had any intention of our
returning. He only wanted to use us to confirm that the Golden Condor does
indeed exist inside a cave in an uncharted mountain.”

“So what the hell should we do now?”

“We do what we came here to do. We find the plane and then
we fly it out of here. After that, you’re going to get me paid, per my signed
agreement with Peter Keogh the Third.”

“Fly it how? Rodney’s dead.”

“We’ll think of something.” I smile. “After all, I’m the Man
in the Yellow Hat. Now, let’s walk.”

With me in the lead, we make for the mountain where Peter
Keogh II was last seen alive more than three-quarters of a century ago.

Luck is on our side.

The thick vegetation that plagued us for miles thins out the
closer we come to the base of the mountain. For some inexplicable reason, my
mind wanders. Almost like it were yesterday, I can still recall working side by
side with my dad. I was the young digger right out of college and he was the
seasoned pro who, at that time, was maybe two or three years younger than I am
now. His idea of on-the-job training was to toss me behind the sticks of an old
yellow Caterpillar backhoe with the order of, “Just do it.” Even now I think
Nike stole their ad campaign from him.

But my dad’s philosophy was a simple one.

Digging wasn’t a matter of placing a big shovel into the
ground and coming up with a pile of dirt. It was all about the feel, the
instinct, the gut you developed over time for making the right moves.
Excavating was like sex. One required gentility, passion, and the entire giving
over of one’s self in order to make the earth move. And there was no better way
for that to happen than to simply get digging, and to learn from your mistakes
along the way.

In the end, Dad was right. After two or three busted gas
lines that nearly blew me up along with them, and four or five severed
electrical lines and one or two serious cave-ins, you learn to develop a sixth
sense about precisely where your big hard shovel is supposed to go and where
it’s not meant to go.

Later on, when we put our digging talents to use in the
sandhogging/archeological trade, we also developed a gut for knowing the best
productive places to dig as opposed to those that would surely turn up empty.
You learn to recognize that little voice inside your head that says, “X marks
the spot.” Right now, as we exit the jungle and come upon the giant rock of a
mountain, I hear that voice loud and clear.

“My God in heaven,” Leslie whispers.

“He would most definitely have had something to do with
this,” I say, as I slowly raise my head to take in the entirety of the colossal
wall of black stone which stands before me. “He or a race of ancient beings who
were not of this earth anyway.”

“Maybe God and these so-called ancient beings are one and
the same.”

“Maybe.”

The cliff face must top off at one thousand vertical meters,
past the tree line, its summit hidden behind thick gray-white clouds. What’s
immediately apparent is that the stone face hasn’t formed naturally, but like
many of the rock carvings on Machu Picchu, have been chiseled out by someone or
something. “Stone face” isn’t an indiscriminate term, as the cliff has been
carved to resemble a man. But not just any man. This man is most certainly
wearing a headdress of sorts. Only, not a true headdress. More like a helmet
that covers the entire head and face with a glass visor for protection.
Projecting from out of the top of the helmet is something that resembles a
hose. A hose for transporting oxygen to the helmet, much like an astronaut
would require.

The stonework is so precise, I would dare anyone to try and
stick their fingernails in between the joints. Old vines and thick growth hang
off of the cliff face, while large birds and bats circle around it, shooting in
and out of the fog-like mist which drapes much of the mountain.

“Look, Chase,” Leslie speaks up. “A staircase.”

It takes me a second or two to tear my eyes away from the
mammoth face carved into the rock. But when I do, I begin to take notice of the
staircase that’s also been carved from out of the rock and that appears to
corkscrew itself around the entire vine-covered mountain.

“Where do you think it leads?” Leslie questions.

“Only one way to find out.”

I approach the stairs with the machete in hand and, after
chopping away some of the vegetation which has grown over the first few steps
over the years, turn to Leslie.

“Looks like it’s been a while since someone climbed this
staircase.”

“Time’s wasting,” she says. For the first time since we
entered the forest, she smiles. I recognize that smile because I’ve seen it
painted on the faces of dozens of explorers I’ve met along the way from Cairo
to Kathmandu. It means that Leslie is catching the fever. The very special
explorer’s fever that can only come from the prospect of uncovering a piece of
profound ancient history. Something that might even possess the answers to why
man lives on earth and why he has evolved the way he has.

“Follow me,” I say, taking my first step up into ancient
history.

The stairs are narrow and slippery both from the damp air and
the moss growth that has formed on them over the years. With no banisters to
hang onto or guardrail to keep us from falling off the side, the going is slow
and precarious to say the least. Each footstep upwards feels as though I were
stepping on smooth rock covered in motor oil. As we climb towards the clouds,
the air becomes noticeably cooler and damper.

Up ahead a coiled snake occupies one of the stair treads, as
if guarding the mountain.

“Leslie,” I say, “give me your gun.”

“Great,” she says, while slowly handing me the AR-15, “more
snakes.”

As I shove the barrel into the snake’s belly, it raises its
head and hisses at me, white fangs bared. Shifting the barrel so that it’s
positioned just beneath the snake’s head, I lift it up off the slippery stone
and send it flying off the side. A couple of seconds later we hear the distinct
thump the heavy snake makes when it collides with the bush below.

I hand the weapon back to Leslie and we proceed with our
ascent. We take the climb slowly, planting our feet on treads hewn out of the
obsidian rock thousands of years ago by men who had no conception about modern
engineering or its mechanical tools. Yet each step could have only been carved
by hand by someone who understood complex construction techniques. Methods that
some would say could only have come to them from a species far older, far more
knowledgeable, and perhaps more powerful than their own.

Soon we emerge through the tree canopy. The hot sun
partially penetrates the never still cloud cover so that at one minute, the sky
is filled with sunshine and the next, it’s covered over entirely by thick,
misting clouds. To my right, the vine-covered, black rock drips with damp
condensate. To my left, huge dinosaur-like birds navigate the open air above
the treetops. A few of the birds appear to be hungry hawks, searching for
spider monkeys and jungle rats to fill their bellies.

As we climb, the mountain narrows and the staircase becomes
steeper, making the going even slower and more treacherous. After a time, the
mouth of the cave comes into view. The mouth of the cave is also the mouth of
the human face carved into the rock. Ingenious. As we close in on the cave
entrance the sun once more breaks through the clouds and we are exposed to a
panoramic view of the rainforest below.

That’s when I spot the runway which has been carved out of
the thick forest.

“Do you see that, Leslie?” I say, pointing with my left arm
and index finger extended. “That opening. It almost looks like a runway.”

“What on God’s earth would a runway be doing in the middle
of this ancient forest?” Leslie poses.

I pull my binoculars out from under my bush jacket, place
them to my eyes.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I say, “but it is a
runway.” Handing her the binoculars. “Look. To the far left of the landing
strip is a plane. A biplane. A De Havilland Tiger Moth, just like the one Keogh
Two was flying when he crashed into the trees almost eighty years ago.”

She gazes through the binoculars.

“Could it be the same one?”

“The odds are against it being anything else.”

“But he must have destroyed it when he crashed it.”

“It’s possible the natives have somehow reassembled it, and
then created a kind of false runway out of the jungle for it. Perhaps something
to please the Gods.”

“Or something to lure the Gods, or what you and I know as
aliens, back to the mountain and what the mountain protects.”

She hands back the binoculars.

I shoot her a look. “Very good deduction, Agent. You’re
learning fast.”

“Let’s keep going,” she says. “Let’s see if a far older
airplane is stored inside that cave.”

We continue climbing, knowing that only one more short
revolution around the mountain separates us from the truth about the ancient
aliens and a Golden Condor.