Inca Gold (1994) by Clive - Dirk Pitt 12 Cussler

Author:Clive - Dirk Pitt 12 Cussler [Cussler, Clive - Dirk Pitt 12]
Format: mobi
Published: 2010-12-20T02:01:51.031000+00:00

"We live in a sordid, unrelenting world," Giordino observed poetically.

Pitt motioned toward the rising sun. "Come around on an approximate heading of one-one-o degrees."

Giordino took note of the eastern heading. "You want to check out the other side of the Gulf on the first run?"

"Only four islands have the geological features similar to what we're looking for. But you know I like launching the search on the outer perimeters of our grid and then working back toward the more promising targets."

Giordino grinned. "Any sane man would begin in the center."

"Didn't you know?" Pitt came back. "The village idiot has all the fun."

It had been a long four days of searching. Oxley was discouraged, Sarason oddly complacent, while Moore was baffled. They had flown over every island in the Sea of Cortez that had the correct geological formations. Several displayed features on their peaks that suggested man-made rock carvings. But low altitude reconnaissance and strenuous climbs up steep palisades to verify the rock structures up close revealed configurations that appeared as sculpted beasts only in their imaginations.

Moore was no longer the arrogant academic. He was plainly baffled. The rock carving had to exist on an island in an inland sea. The pictographs on the golden mummy suit were distinct, and there was no mistaking the directions in his translation. For a man so cocksure of himself, the failure was maddening.

Moore was also puzzled by Sarason's sudden change in attitude. The bastard, Moore mused, no longer displayed animosity or anger. Those strange almost colorless eyes always seemed to be in a constant state of observation, never losing their intensity. Moore knew whenever he gazed into them that he was facing a man who was no stranger to death.

Moore was becoming increasingly uneasy. The balance of power had shifted. His edge was dulled now he was certain that Sarason saw beyond his credentials as an insolent schoolteacher. If he had recognized the killer instinct in Sarason, it stood to reason Sarason had identified it in him too.

But there was a small measure of satisfaction. Sarason was not clairvoyant. He could not have known, nor did any man alive know except the President of the United States, that Professor Henry Moore, respected anthropologist, and his equally respected archaeologist wife, Micki were experts in carrying out assassinations of foreign terrorist leaders. With their academic credentials they easily traveled in and out of foreign countries as consultants on archaeological projects. Interestingly, the CIA was in total ignorance of their actions. Their assignments came directly from an obscure agency calling itself the Foreign Activities Council that operated out of a small basement room under the White House.

Moore shifted restlessly in his seat and studied a chart of the Gulf. Finally he said, "Something is very, very wrong."

Oxley looked at his watch. "Five o'clock. I prefer to land in daylight. We might as well call it a day."

Sarason's expressionless gaze rested on the empty horizon ahead. Untypically, he acted relaxed and quiet. He offered no comment.

"It's got to

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