Dirk Pitt 12 - Inca Gold by Cussler Clive

Author:Cussler, Clive [Clive, Cussler,]
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2010-06-10T04:00:00+00:00

“He's moving in a bit close for a passing stranger, wouldn't you say?”

“Either he's being neighborly or he wants to read our name tags.”

Pitt stared through the binoculars at the cockpit of the plane that was now flying alongside the NUMA helicopter no more than 50 meters (164 feet) away.

“What do you see?” asked Giordino, minding his flying.

“Some guy staring back at me through binoculars,” replied Pitt with a grin.

“Maybe we should call them up and invite them over for ajar of Grey Poupon mustard.”

The passenger in the seaplane dropped his glasses for a moment to massage his eyes before resuming his inspection. Pitt pressed his elbows against his body to steady his view. When he lowered the binoculars, he was no longer smiling.

“An old friend from Peru,” he said in cold surprise.

Giordino turned and looked at Pitt curiously. “Old friend?”

“Dr. Steve Miller's imposter come back to haunt us.”

Pitt's smile returned, and it was hideously diabolic. Then he waved.

If Pitt was surprised at the unexpected confrontation, Sarason was stunned. “You!” he gasped.

“What did you say?” asked Oxley.

His senses reeling at seeing the man who had caused him so much grief, uncertain if this was a trick of his mind, Sarason refocused the binoculars and examined the devil that was grinning fiendishly and waving slowly like a mourner at graveside bidding goodbye to the departed. A slight shift of the binoculars and all color drained from his face as he recognized Giordino as the pilot.

“The men in that helicopter,” he said, his voice thick, “are the same two who wreaked havoc on our operation in Peru.”

Oxley looked unconvinced. “Think of the odds, brother. Are you certain?”

“It's them, there can be no others. Their faces are burned in my memory. They cost our family millions of dollars in artifacts that were later seized by Peruvian government archaeologists.”

Moore was listening intently. “Why are they here?”

“The same purpose we are. Someone must have leaked information on our project.” He turned and glared at Moore. “Perhaps the good professor has friends at NUMA?”

“My only connection with the government is on April fifteenth when I file my income tax return,” Moore said testily. “Whoever they are, they're no friends of mine.”

Oxley remained dubious. “Henry's right. Impossible for him to have made outside contact. Our security is too tight. Your assertion might make more sense to me if they were Customs officials, not scientists or engineers from an oceanographic research agency.”

“No. I swear it's the same men who appeared out of nowhere and rescued the archaeologist and photographer from the sacred well. Their names are Dirk Pitt and Al Giordino. Pitt is the most dangerous of the two. He was the one who killed my men and emasculated Tupac Amaru. We must follow them and find out where they're operating from.”

“I have only enough fuel to make it back to Guaymas,” said Oxley. “We'll have to let them go.”

“Force them down, force them to crash,” Sarason demanded.

Oxley shook his head. “If they're as dangerous as you suggest, they may well be armed, and we're not.

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