The Third Gate (6 page)

It was at least eighty feet long but with a beam remarkably narrow given its length. For its size it rode extremely shallow: Logan estimated a draft of two feet at most. The superstructure consisted of a single, two-story construction that took up most of the deck. At either side of the bow were two small platforms, open to the air and suspended out over the water, that reminded Logan of crow’s nests. But the boat’s single most remarkable feature was at its stern: a massive, conical cage of steel, narrow end forward, as big as a Gemini space capsule and roughly the same shape. It enclosed a large, cruel-looking five-bladed propeller. The entire assembly was fixed permanently atop the stern section of the main deck.

“Good lord,” Logan said from the dock. “An airboat on steroids.”

“A description apt enough,” came a gruff voice. Logan glanced up to see a man appear in a doorway at the front of the superstructure. He was fiftyish, of medium build, with deep-set eyes and a closely cropped white beard. He stepped up to the waiting gangplank and ushered them aboard.

“This is James Plowright,” Rush said. “The expedition’s senior pilot.”

“Quite a vessel,” Logan said.

“Aye.” The man nodded.

“How does she handle?” Logan asked.

“Well enough.” Plowright had a rough Scottish burr and the Scotsman’s economy of words to go with it.

Logan looked back at the propeller assembly. “What’s the powerplant?”

“Lycoming P-fifty-three gas turbine. Retrofitted from a Huey jetcopter.”

Logan whistled.

“This way,” Rush said. He turned to Plowright. “You can cast off when ready, Jimmy.”

Plowright nodded.

Rush led the way back along the deck. Given the size of the superstructure and the craft’s slim beam, the decking was very narrow, and Logan was glad of the railing alongside. They passed several doors, then Rush ducked through an open doorway and ushered Logan into a dimly lit space. As his eyes adjusted, Logan found himself in a pleasantly appointed saloon, furnished with couches and banquettes. A variety of framed nautical scenes and sporting prints hung on the walls. The space smelled strongly of polished leather and insect repellent.

The driver of the jeep deposited Logan’s bags and the metal case in one corner, bowed, then returned to the deck.

Logan pointed at the case. “What’s in there?” he asked.

Rush smiled. “Hard disks containing the case files from the Center. I can’t completely ignore my full-time job while I’m out here.”

Within a minute, Logan heard faint sounds from the direction of the stern: the jet engine started up with a howl and the vessel drew away from the dock, its frame throbbing slightly, heading upriver toward the Sudan.

“We have two of these craft, specially built for the expedition,” Rush said as they settled onto one of the banquettes. “We use them for ferrying things to the site. Things too bulky or fragile for airdrop: high-tech equipment, for example. Or specialists.”

“I can’t imagine any site that would require a craft like this.”

“When you see it, you’ll understand all too well—I promise.”

Logan sat back on the rich leather seat. “Okay, Ethan. I’ve met Stone. I know what you’re looking for. Now I think it’s time you told me where we’re going.”

Rush smiled faintly. “You know the term ‘hell on earth’?”

“Of course.”

“Well, prepare yourself. Because that’s exactly where we’re headed.”

7

Rush leaned forward in the banquette. “Have you heard of the Sudd?”

Logan thought a moment. “It rings a distant bell.”

“People assume that the Nile is just a wide river, snaking its way unimpeded out from the heart of Africa. Nothing could be further from the truth. The early British explorers—Burton and Livingstone and the others—found that out the hard way when they encountered the Sudd. But take a look at that—it’ll describe the place far more eloquently than I can.” And Rush gestured to a book on a nearby table.

Logan hadn’t noticed it before and now he picked it up. It was a battered copy of Alan Moorehead’s
The White Nile
. It was a history of the exploration of the river; he vaguely remembered leafing through a copy as a child.

“Page ninety-five,” Rush said.

Logan flipped through the book, found the page, and—as the saloon throbbed around him—began to read.

The Nile … is a complicated stream. [It] proceeds through the desert on a broad and fairly regular course.… [But ultimately] the river turns west, the air grows more humid, the banks more green, and this is the first warning of the great obstacle of the Sudd that lies ahead. There is no more formidable swamp in the world than the Sudd. The Nile loses itself in a vast sea of papyrus ferns and rotting vegetation, and in that foetid heat there is a spawning tropical life that can hardly have altered very much since the beginning of the world; it is as primitive and hostile to man as the Sargasso Sea.… [The] region is neither land nor water. Year by year the current keeps bringing down more floating vegetation, and packs it into solid chunks perhaps twenty feet thick and strong enough for an elephant to walk on. But then this debris breaks away in islands and forms again in another place, and this is repeated in a thousand indistinguishable patterns and goes on forever.… Here there was not even a present, let alone a past; except on occasional islands of hard ground no men ever had lived or ever could live in this desolation of drifting reeds and ooze, even the most savage of men. The lower forms of life flourished here in mad abundance, but for … men the Sudd contained nothing but the threat of starvation, disease and death
.

Logan put the book down. “My God. Such a place really exists?”

“It exists all right. You’ll see it before dark.” Rush shifted on the banquette. “Imagine: a region thousands of square miles across, not so much swamp as a labyrinth of papyrus reeds and waterlogged trunks.
And
mud. Mud everywhere, mud more treacherous than quicksand. The Sudd isn’t deep, often just thirty or forty
feet in places, but in addition to being horribly honeycombed with braided undergrowth, its water is so full of silt, divers can’t see an inch beyond their faces. The water’s full of crocodiles by day, the air full of mosquitoes by night. All the early explorers gave up trying to cross it and eventually went around. The Sudd may not be quite as remote or impassable today as it was in the times Moorehead wrote of, but it’s no picnic. It’s in a wide, shallow valley. And every year it spreads. Just a little, but it spreads. It’s like a living thing—that’s why we need such a narrow craft. Trying to traverse the Sudd is like threading a needle through the bark of a tree. Every day we have a recon helicopter that charts the shifting eddies, maps new paths through it. And every day, those routes change.”

“So the vessel acts sort of like an icebreaker,” Logan said. He was thinking of the strange equipment he’d seen at the bow.

Rush nodded. “The shallow draft helps clear underwater obstructions, and the propeller at the stern provides the raw power necessary to push through tight spots.”

“You’re right,” Logan said. “It
does
sound like hell on earth. But why are we …” He stopped. “Oh, no.”

Rush nodded. “Oh, yes.”

“Good lord.” Logan fell silent a moment. “So Narmer’s tomb is there. But why?”

“Remember what Stone said? Think about it. Narmer went to unprecedented lengths to conceal the location of his tomb. He actually went out of Egypt proper, past the six cataracts of the Nile, into Nubia—a dangerous journey into hostile lands. Given how early in Egyptian history this was—remember, this is the Archaic Period, the First Dynasty—it’s an accomplishment on the order of the Great Pyramid. Not only that, but Narmer is the only pharaoh
not
buried in Egypt—as you probably know, all pharaohs had to be entombed on Egyptian soil.”

Logan nodded. “That’s why Egypt never colonized.”

“Given all this, Jeremy—all this incredible effort and expense and risk—do you really think it likely that Narmer’s tomb contains little of value?”

“But an impenetrable swamp …” Logan shook his head. “Think of the logistics involved in tomb building—especially for a primitive culture, operating in a hostile region.”

“That’s the fiendish beauty of the thing. Remember how I said the Sudd spreads a little every year? Narmer knew that. He could build his tomb on what was then the
edge
of the Sudd, keeping its location secret. There’s a vast system of volcanic caves just below the surface of the Sudd valley. After his death, the swamp, expanding ever outward, would hide all traces of his tomb. Nature would do the job for him.” Rush’s face took on a troubled look. “Almost too well.”

“What do you mean?”

“You heard Stone. The site is up and running, smooth as clockwork. All the experts are in place, the technicians and archaeologists and mechanics and the rest. Only …” He hesitated. “Only the precise location proved a little more difficult to find than Stone’s experts assumed.” Rush sighed. “Of course there is the usual need for a low profile—not as much as on a typical site, of course, but it’s there nonetheless. And it’s the worst time of the year to work, too: the rainy season. It makes the Sudd that much more difficult and unpleasant and unhealthy a place to work.”

Logan remembered Stone’s words:
We are under some significant time pressures
. “So why the frantic pace? Why not just wait for the dry season? The tomb has sat there for five thousand years—why not another six months?”

As if in answer, Rush stood and beckoned Logan to follow him out of the saloon. They regained the deck and walked carefully forward to the bow. The sun was sinking toward the horizon, the pitiless white ball now an angry orange. The Nile spread out from the prow in thick undulating lines. The cry of waterbirds was giving way to strange trumpetings from either bank.

Rush spread his hands. Glancing ahead, Logan saw a range of hills rising on both sides of the river, widening to form a vast amphitheater ahead of them, marching on into the distance where sight failed. “You see that?” Rush asked. “Beyond those is the Af’ayalah Dam. Already it’s nearing completion on this, the Sudanese side of
the frontier. In five months, all this—everything, the whole useless godforsaken place—will be underwater.”

Logan peered into the gathering gloom. Now he understood the hurry.

As he peered thoughtfully into the water ahead, he began to notice bracken floating in the lazy current. First, just bundles of papyrus reeds. But then the reeds began forming small islands, attaching themselves to promontories of mud that rose out of the river like miniature volcanoes.

“The dam provides us with a great cover story,” Rush went on. “We’re posing as a team researching the ecosystem, documenting it before it’s gone forever. But that layer of phoniness costs extra money, and, again, the longer it continues, the more difficult the deception becomes.”

The boat began to slow as the debris grew thicker. Now Logan could see huge logs, twisted together as if in titanic struggle, moss and rotting weeds hanging from their flanks like so much webbing. A stench of decay and overripe verdure began rising around them. A door in the superstructure opened and two mates appeared, each carrying a strange, harpoonlike weapon attached to pneumatic hoses. They took up positions in the platforms on each side of the bow, leaning out over the water, devices at the ready.

Suddenly, a floodlight snapped on in the forecastle, sending a shaft of surreal blue light ahead of the bow. The turbine throttled back still further. A light rain had begun to fall. The vegetation was growing ever thicker, a nearly impenetrable carpet of weeds and papyrus and branches and vile muck that now surrounded them. The men in the bow began using their pneumatic devices to violently push the heavier logs and clots of fibrous matting out of the way. Their machines made deep, ugly
snuck, snuck
noises. Ahead, in the narrow lane of open water the boat was following, Logan caught sight of a small light, bobbing in the swamp, flashing quickly in the reflected glow of the vessel’s searchlight. One of the mates fished it out as they passed.

“The daily search chopper drops beacons as it charts a fresh path
through this hell,” Rush explained. “It’s the only way for the boats to get through.”

They crawled forward into an ever-thicker tangle of logs and bracken. The noises from the riverbanks—if indeed there were still any banks to be found in this morass—had all but ceased. It was as if they were now surrounded by an infinite riot of flora, dead and dying, all wedged into one colossal tangle. They waited in the bow, barely speaking, as the boat followed the line of flashing beacons. Now and then the path seemed to Logan to lead to a dead end; but each time, after making a blind turn, the fetid tangle of vegetation widened once again. Frequently, the boat had to use its own superstructure to push aside the oozing warp and weft.

At one point they reached a spot through which there was no clear passage. Up in the pilothouse, Plowright, the captain, goosed the turbine; the vessel lifted bodily into the air and forced its way over the matted surface—twenty-five, fifty feet forward—with a horrible clanging and scraping along the underside. It became clearer than ever to Logan why the boat’s motive power, the huge fan, had been mounted
atop
the deck: any normal propeller would have been snagged in a minute. The two mates leaned forward over the bow, plying their pneumatic prods. The cloying heat, the stench of rotting vegetation, grew overpowering.

“It’s been a long day,” Rush said suddenly, out of the fading light. “Tomorrow, you’ll meet some of the key members. And you’ll get what I think you’ve been waiting for the most.”

“What’s that?”

“The last piece of the puzzle. The one that answers your other question: why you, of all people, are here.”

Here?
Logan glanced ahead. And then, quite suddenly, he understood.

The boat had made a sharp turn through a vast screen of knotted limbs and papyrus, and now a most unusual sight greeted Logan’s eyes. Ahead, floating on at least a half-dozen vast pontoon platforms, lay what appeared to be a small city. Lights twinkled from beneath countless mosquito nets. Canvas tarps the size of football fields were
erected over the structures, shielding them from the sky. There was a faint hum of generators, barely louder than the whine of insects that hovered and dove in clouds around their boat. It was an outrageous sight, here in this most remote and dreadful of spots: an oasis of civilization that might just as well have been set down on one of Jupiter’s moons.